Slipping into Shadow
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: Gods help her, but Portia had stolen from Mehrunes Dagon, and with the barrier on Oblivion weakening, Mehrunes was no longer a captive of his own world. He would hunt her through a web of political intrigue, but a game of cat and mouse is never simple.
1. Chapter 1: Important Note

Note from the Author:

Okay, so originally this story was marked as adventure/angst, but I've since changed it. This is definitely a larger project, which I hadn't intended for it to be, but I'm finding that fleshing out secondary characters is giving the story much more depth, and it allows for a more complete and effective tale. I had wanted to avoid that kind of detail, because that's a lot of time for a fanfiction, but I can't bring myself to do otherwise, SO....

My jumbo project has changed genre, and there's an important explanation for that. Although the story is taking its time in order to allow character development, there _will_ be a romance, but one that's dark in nature. I don't even know if it can rightfully be called a romance considering that a daedric prince and a target of his are involved, but there you have it. For anyone who doesn't like how long the romance takes to start, I will only say this once: this a story, not just a romance, and to make the romance believable, there has to be a lot of context and set-up. Besides, I want this to develop slowly so that the reader can see things gradually happening and isn't just like, "Where did this come from?" Also, the plot is fairly complicated with lots of plotting and subterfuge, so that takes time to explore too.

There you have it, so take it or leave it. Although, I do hope you enjoy it and R&R. I've always wanted to do something a bit different with one of the daedric princes, and Mehrunes Dagon is the one I've chosen.


	2. Chapter 2: The Job

Chapter 1:

_The room was dark but for the faint glow of the fire that burned atop a central column. The unearthly red flames danced without fuel, and the light that they cast lent a menacing quality to the room's angular design. Shadows arched and curved in every direction, and it was in their paths that a lone thief crouched and hid. Her soft leather boots made no noise on the black marble floors, and a chameleon spell overlaid her black clothing. Everything here seemed unnaturally black, from the walls to the statues, to the occasional dremora that roamed the halls in daedric armor. There was, of course, also some red. If she looked closely, the thief noticed that red runes covered the polished walls from ceiling to floor, but she could not read the ancient runes. Nor could she understand how oblivion had come into possession of the silky, crimson curtains that draped over the impossibly tall windows, but it hardly mattered._

_However Mehrunes Dagon wanted to decorate his home was his own business. She just had to find that one artifact and then she could leave. Unsure of herself, the thief placed a hand to her belt and made sure that the spell scroll was still there. Without it, she had no way out of this god forsaken land, and she couldn't imagine what would happen to her if she were caught. Damn them all—the daedra and the imperials. In the disturbing silence of dark manor, she rained curses down upon anyone and everyone who might have had a hand in sending her here, yet she continued on._

_Her hands gentle pushed against an ebony door, and it mutely swung inward. Where was she now? There was a four-post bed, and a massive one at that, and it dominated the room. Its dark frame was lavished in blood-red blankets and curtains that almost appeared to shimmer purple depending on the angle that one looked at them from. The floor was so smooth and polished that it reflected the ceiling like a mirror, and the braziers lining the edge of the circular room flickered across the stones. It was beautifully regal in its own way, and the thief was hesitant to enter, but then her eyes landed on the table._

_There was a large table at the foot of the bed, and its surface was strewn with artifacts. Some of them glittered with enchantment, but others appeared ordinary, and they were probably the most powerful ones. She stepped closer while scanning the collection for a simple, black necklace. It would look like a plain piece of onyx on a gold chain, but it was also very small. Where…? The thief's breath caught as she located the prize where it lay half-hidden by a skull. Now she could go home._

_"What do you think you're doing, human?" Pure panic—that's what her reaction to that low, threatening voice could be called. The verbal threat had appeared from nowhere, and she froze in fear. When instincts finally kicked in and told her to grab the necklace and run, it was too late. Pain erupted in her body—a searing sensation that made concentration impossible. She was being burned alive. Akatosh's mercy, but this was the end, and she wanted it to end as her nerves erupted in heat. She closed her eyes in preparation for death, not wanting to see the victorious face of her opponent._

_"I won't make it so fast, mortal," the same voice as before stated, and the pain lessened."You've intruded where you don't belong." Breathing heavily, the thief felt a hand grip her tunic and hoist her up from the ground where she had fallen in anguish. The lingering effects of the destruction spell still had her head reeling. "Open your eyes!" her captor harshly ordered. _

_Don't, but a claw ran down the side of her face, breaking the skin and causing her to gasp. Eyelids flew open, and she suddenly found herself face-to-face with the last being that she wanted to see: Mehrunes Dagon. She didn't even have time to take in his appearance, for his black eyes were sucking her into their depths. Gods above, but how could eyes be so black and bottomless? For a moment, she forgot how to breathe, and her gaping, terrified expression made Mehrunes laugh. The deep, throaty sound filled the room, and then she was falling, his mocking laughter the only sound chasing her into unconsciousness. And the pain—gods, but the pain was unbearable. _

Portia Augustine woke up screaming, the sheets beneath her damp with sweat and blood, and the lone candle on the bedside table flickering with the breeze coming through her opened window. She lurched forward into a sitting position, head clutched in her hands, and chest heaving. It had felt so damn real, like she was there again, like a normal dream shouldn't have been able to accomplish. Four weeks and she was still having these nightmares, and no mage or priest had been able to do anything to stop them.

"Damn it!" she yelled, not caring if anyone heard. The pain in her right hip had returned, as she'd known it would, and the nightmare lingered with the tenacity of Mehrunes' malicious spirit. His eyes…she shuddered and stood, one hand gingerly touching the wound on her side. Blood had soaked through her nightgown, and she slowly rolled up the white fabric to reveal a strange symbol carved into her flesh. They had warned it that it might not ever fully heal, and she believed them. The wound was unnatural in the utmost, and bleeding almost always accompanied her troubled dreams. She never lost enough blood to be endangered, but it still hurt, and it was a reminder of who was after her.

_Was_ he after her?

Hell, she didn't think that he'd actually leave her alone—not after what she had done.

_You'll always carry this reminder, human_._ You are mine!_ The memory of Mehrunes' parting words made her face pale, and she rushed into the washing room to clean herself of bloodshed that he visited upon her. His angry visage had promised revenge when she'd escaped his grasp, but he could not touch her here in the capitol. There were warding spells on the house, and the daedra lord was currently busy trying to conquer Tamriel. So she might feel trapped by his threats, but at least she was safe for now, perhaps forever.

Really?

Portia ran a shaky hand through her long, brown hair and prayed to Akatosh for protection. With a flask of brandy in hand, she sat on the edge of her bed, the smell of the alcohol comforting her as memories played before her eyes…

***********************

Four Weeks Previously:

The curtains gently billowed as wind swept up over the fortress walls and along the parapets, carrying with it the familiar scent of lilac and the muffled chatter of the market. It was a calming sensation, and one which was sorely needed at the moment, for Portia Augustine had just received what promised to be the toughest assignment of her life. She stood with hands braced against the windowsill, palms pressed hard against the cold stone, and eyes mindlessly roaming across the shoppers below. For such a seemingly normal day, her world was being flipped on its head.

"You're sure that you can't find someone else?" she asked, voice flat. She heard the man behind her shift, but she knew that it wasn't in discomfort. This man had no remorse for what he was doing to her.

"The job is too delicate to be assigned to someone else," he stated in a voice that left no room for argument.

"Assigned?" Portia nearly spat. "I am no longer under your watch, sir. In case you forgot, I left the guard two years ago." _And I left for a reason_, she mentally added.

"Be that as it may, someone has to do this." They lapsed into silence, and Portia finally turned away from the window. The burgundy curtains grazed her thighs as she stood there, framed in the sunlight. She was facing a man in his late forties, perfectly polished armor encasing his tall frame, and short brown hair tucked behind his ears. His face was beginning to show the lines of age and stress, but he held himself like a man in control. Hell, he was a man in control. Arelius was captain of the guard, held a near perfect record, and was known for being entrusted with delicate matters. Portia had once been privy to his privileged, inside information, for she had been a fellow member of the blades, but not anymore, and so when he had shown up at the foot of her bedroll yesterday, she had known that it didn't bode well. She had been enjoying her little sojourn into the wilderness…

"Portia," he said. "I have my orders to see this task finished, and you're the only one who even has a shot at success."

"It's suicide," she sharply replied.

"Not if it's done properly," came the immediate response. "You always handled your assignments with a stealth more suited to the thieves' guild than the guard. That's why I recruited you to the Blades, and that's why you'll succeed." Portia smiled and shook her head in wonder.

"You've always had a talent for this," she mused. "Whenever I wanted to back out, you always convinced me that I could get the job done…but not this time, captain. I left my duties behind, and I don't want to come back. I doubt that I'm welcomed anyway."

"You'll be working alone," Arelius assured. "You don't need to see the others, and they'll keep their hands to themselves if I tell them to." Portia focused on the hilt of his sword, the familiar eagle carved along its edge conjuring memories of being a new recruit. Back then she had envied him his sword and the respect that its sight commanded. He had been the model, and she had been the newbie earning her way up the ladder before accidently murdering a fellow blade. She could still imagine the blood running through her fingers and the look of disbelief on the man's face. Damn, but she had mistaken him for an assassin. What had he been doing lurking behind her in the shadows?

Arelius noted the sudden intensity of Portia's face and his expression softened.

"Let it go," he ordered. "No one blames you."

"Are we through here?" she demanded. She was not discussing this with him.

"No."

"And why not?"

"You _will_ be doing this job, whether you like it or not." He grimly passed her a slip of paper. "I didn't want to resort to this, but my hand isn't the only one behind this mission. The Elder Council won't accept 'no' for an answer." Portia examined the piece of paper, and her eyes suddenly widened in comprehension. They couldn't press charges against her for involvement with the Grey Fox. She had…she would never…the nerve of those men!

"If I'm found guilty?" she probed.

"_When_ you're found guilty, you'll be executed."

"This is bullshit, and you know it."

"Like I said: not my choice." But his eyes showed no remorse; they never did. This man lived for the empire and the Septim line, which was why there would be no reasoning with him. He expected her to do this, even if she failed to see how she could survive an encounter with oblivion. She had heard the rumors of Kvatch, for news of an entire city's destruction spread quickly, and according to Arelius, that wasn't the only incident of concern. She believed him when he said that oblivion was preparing for total war, and it scared her like nothing had in a long time. The emperor and heirs assassinated, daedra roaming the roads, people disappearing in the wild…the empire was going to hell.

"What exactly am I suppose to do?" she warily asked, accepting her fate.

"Go into oblivion," Arelius answered, and his cool tone annoyed Portia.

"I know that. What I mean is: what am I expected to do there? What the hell can I do that will make the slightest bit of difference?" Arelius stared her down in a nonverbal reprimand for raising her voice toward him, and she slowly relaxed her glare. Antagonizing this man might not be the best idea given her predicament.

"Mehrunes and his followers are responsible for the assassinations and the attack on Kvatch. Gates to Oblivion are appearing throughout the countryside and giving his armies access to our world. If it can't be stopped, he may well finally accomplish his dreams of ruling mankind, and so far, all we can do is wait for a gate to open and fight whatever comes out. It's damn frustrating, and this recent attack on Kvatch…well, he got more out of the attack than we bargained for, and that's where you come in." Portia nodded, showing that she was listening, every dreadful sentence filling her ears and mind.

"General Achires was at Kvatch and was killed in the fighting. As you know from being in the blades, he was entrusted with the protection of a powerful artifact."

"Sable," Portia sighed, now realizing the extent of their problems.

"Yes, Sable," Arelius grunted. "The pendant of vision. Achires used it to locate wanted criminals, but imagine what Mehrunes could do with it. He could hunt down the last heir—all he needs is a name, and he can pinpoint a location and send every dremora and beast at his command to end our hope. We need to reclaim that pendant, Portia. If Mehrunes finds the last heir before we do, we'll have lost before the real fighting even begins."

"So you're asking me to sneak into Oblivion and steal from right beneath Mehrunes Dagon's nose? You're giving me too much credit. As soon as I step foot in his realm, he'll know there's an intruder. His eyes and ears will be everywhere."

"He would know if you entered through one of the major gates, but you'll travel through a small dimensional loophole courtesy of the mages' guild. The master had assured us that he's found a way to do it, so no one could possibly be monitoring your arrival."

"So that means that I'm leaving…what? Now?" The captain smiled, and Portia's frown deepened.

"How very astute of you," he joked. "Gather what you need, and meet me at the arcane university in thirty minutes. Time is even shorter now that it took over a day to find you."

"I didn't want to be found," Portia grumbled, but there was no slinking back to her small campsite now. Either she went to oblivion and helped protect the citizens who she'd once served, or she'd be executed as a common criminal and disgrace her name and family. She would take the former over the latter, and who knew, maybe luck was on her side. She was born under the Thief after all, and she _had_ been extraordinarily sneaky for a guard. That was why she'd been chosen for this impossible task, for she could remain undetected until the last moment, yet she had the combat skills of a soldier. She could just imagine some of her former comrades trying to secretly move about oblivion, and it was laughable. Yes, she was a good choice compared to the other options, and she had never regretted it more. Her life expectancy had just plummeted.


	3. Chapter 3: Chaos Spheres

Chapter 2:

Arelius leaned forward to place a kiss on his wife's neck as she was dressing, and the woman smiled warmly as his hands wound loosely about her hips. He loved slow mornings like this, for they were relaxing but few and far between. Since the emperor had been assassinated, there had been no peace in his life, and he was forever running to and fro, dictating orders and taking them. He had thought that Portia's successful return of Sable would take pressure off of him, but Mehrunes was still on the move, and the woman's survival had unexpectedly complicated the dangerous game that he was playing.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" his wife teased.

"Not for another thirty minutes," he told her, his thoughts wandering to the sheer robe that barely covered her body. His was entertaining the idea of a quick romp in the blankets when his keen vision caught movement near the window. It was subtle, but noticeable, and he wondered how long the intruder had been standing there, watching this intimate exchange.

"Arelius?" his wife asked.

"Hmmm?"

"I hate when you tense up like that. Whatever it is, I'll be downstairs overseeing the servants." She knew him too well, and he reluctantly let her slip from his grasp and disappear from sight. He loved the way that her black hair swayed when she walked, for she was every inch the imperial aristocrat, and that hair had been what first attracted him. What a wasted chance at enjoying her beauty this morning, but he quickly refocused on business. Tamil wouldn't be in his private quarters if the matter wasn't serious.

"I wasn't expecting a visit," he stated, turning toward the window where he'd seen the woman. His eyes fixed on the shifting air where he assumed her to be.

"I wasn't expecting to visit, if that's any consolation," a feminine voice replied, and the invisibility spell was dropped. What was now open to view was a middle-aged Dunmer with light blue skin and large, red eyes. Her short, black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and several green tattoos ranged across her neck and left cheek, but Arelius was never certain of their meaning. It was hard to tell with Dunmer from Morrowind, for the province had its own traditions that he'd never bothered investigating. He didn't care anyway. What mattered was that Tamil was efficient and a worthy Blade.

"What did the monk say?" Arelius asked. He was referring to the master of the Blades, but given the secret nature of the man's position, they never used names. Tamil stepped closer and passed a scroll into the captain's waiting hands.

"He says that we should follow the mages' advice. He doesn't know much about artifacts or Mehrunes' lore, so he's deferring to them and agreeing that the chaos sphere should be left alone for now."

"Isn't that rather dangerous?" Arelius asked. "If it falls into the wrong hands, there's no telling what could happen."

"Which is why the mages guild is keeping Portia's secret. No one is to know about what she took from Mehrunes, and she'll be allowed to retain it until they figure out how to safely handle it. If you ask me, they're terrified, and I don't trust that arch mage. He's too secretive and obsessed with research, so I wonder why he agreed to this. It seems like he'd love to get his hands on Portia's treasure."

"Fear is a powerful motivator," Arelius mused. "No one wants to take Portia's place on the chopping block…poor girl." He shook his head. "I had hoped that she would be spared long term damage from this. She woke up screaming again last night. The nightmares are becoming more frequent, and all the mages want to do is be patient and hide her from Mehrunes. I don't know how long that will work."

"It will have to suffice for now, because there's nothing else to do."

"So we wait," Arelius frowned. "And you're right. I don't trust the mages either. I'd feel better if the blades were handling this business alone."

"Amen," Tamil grimly agreed. "The monk has ordered us to keep the reins. We are supposed to watch the mages and work with them on this matter. Most of all, we need to protect Portia and make sure that information doesn't leak."

"The mages better watch their end of the stick," Arelius grunted. "Protecting Portia will be easy if no one knows what she has." He tucked his scroll into a small, locked chest, and grabbed his sword from the wall. "Tell the monk that I'll keep the situation under control. We'll speak again later."

"Until next time, captain." Tamil was gone in an instant, back out the window through which she'd entered, and Arelius was left to his thoughts. Portia knew nothing of what she'd unwittingly brought to the human world, and both the Blades and mages wanted to keep it that way. They saw her ignorance as vital to keeping a lid on their current problems, and Arelius tended to agree with them. It was not his place to question his superior either, for the Blade master knew far more than he did. He only had to protect Portia and guide her in the direction that would best suit the empire. He didn't foresee any problems, but he wouldn't hold his breath.

*******************

"Another day," Portia sighed while buttoning her trousers. She glanced at herself in the mirror and decided that her lack of sleep was definitely showing. Beneath long tresses, her eyes were sunken and dark, the green irises no longer shining with enthusiasm, and the deadened energy did nothing to enhance her already plain appearance. She did, however, carry herself well, and slender bones lent her a very feminine figure that belied her strength. She liked the subtle curves of her thin body, but she'd always personally thought that her nose was a little slender (much too like a high elf's for an Imperial), even if others told her that it suited her oval face.

Portia pulled her hair back into a braid and tucked her green tunic into her breeches. She wore tall leather boots and bracers, and carried a thin knife tucked into her belt. She never felt secure without some type of weapon on her, and blades were her preferred choice. Arelius wasn't pleased with her carrying it around the manor, but he wasn't the one jumping at shadows either. His nerves weren't tattered from nights of blood and screaming, and he hadn't stared oblivion in the face and barely lived to tell the tale.

Portia wondered where the captain was this morning as she moved out onto the balcony adjoining her room. She had been surprised by his invitation to live here, and while the idea didn't thrill her, she'd accepted since she had nowhere else to go. Now she was lodged in his family's manor, which happened to occupy a prestigious position near the palace. Of course, the royal family was now dead and gone, but Silver Wells was still the preeminent neighborhood for aristocrats. The large area was filled with manors, gardens, and even a museum. Portia had never thought that she'd walk among these houses let alone live among them, but here she was by an act of mercy. Perhaps Arelius felt somewhat guilty for her current health, or more likely, he had future plans for her.

Portia inwardly dared the man to try and manipulate her as she stared down at the garden beneath her balcony. Lush greens and vibrant, flowering bushes met her eyes, and between the plants ran two boys in a fit of giggles. They were Arelius' two sons, and they were trying to outsmart their very exasperated tutor.

"Come inside and study this instant!" the man demanded, and even Portia smiled at his flustered face. She took the stairs connected to the balcony and descended to his level, arms clasped neatly behind her back as she strolled.

"Morning," she greeted.

"Ah, madam, please tell these ruffians that they need to study," the tutor begged. He frowned as the two boys rushed around his blue robes and directly toward Portia.

"Is it true, madam?" one of the youths asked, face red from running. The other was equally wide-eyed and awaited her answer while bobbing up and down. Portia merely frowned.

"Is what true?" she asked, but she very well knew what was coming.

"They say that you went to oblivion on a secret mission!"

"Yeah, and that Mehrunes scarred you—that he almost killed you!"

"That you stole from him and survived!" The boys' mouths were running away with rumors, and the more they said, the more Portia's face contorted in discomfort. She did not want to listen to this, for it conjured memories of soulless eyes and a dominating voice. Almost instinctively, a hand moved toward her wounded side, and she marveled at the innocence of the children. They made stealing from Mehrunes sound like great fun, but she had been an idiot to challenge the Prince of Destruction. Perhaps if she had only escaped, her predicament wouldn't be so terrible, but she…

"Enough!" Arelius' voice barked. "Get back to your lessons, children, and I don't want to hear another word about these Mehrunes stories, understood?" Portia was actually relieved that the captain had appeared, for the boys were rendered submissively mute.

"Yes, sir," their voices dragged, and then they were following their tutor away from the gardens. Portia breathed easier and found Arelius' hand on her elbow. He guided her to a bench where they both sat, and Portia noted that civilian clothing suited her former mentor. She had never seen him in regular garb before, and she wondered how she had worked with him for four years and never once caught a glimpse of him dressed down.

"I apologize for their behavior," he told her. "They know better than to let their mouths run."

"They're children," Portia dismissed, feeling foolish for having allowed mere words to bother her in the first place.

"Either way, it will not happen again," Arelius promised. He then leaned forward and promptly switched topics. "I came to tell you that the mages wish to speak with you this afternoon."

"I got the letter…but why are you here to repeat the news? Does it bother you that you weren't allowed to attend the last meeting?" Arelius grunted.

"Hardly. Just because you didn't see me doesn't mean that I wasn't there, and I must say that your actions were rather foolhardy."

"The guild master deserved those harsh words," Portia defended. "His portal spell nearly ripped me in half." She had not survived Mehrunes to get trapped or split between dimensions, which was what had almost happened to her. At the time, she had only been aware of reading the incantation and then feeling like her insides were swimming and pulling in opposite directions, followed by an intense sensation of physical detachment. It hadn't hurt, but it had been damn unpleasant, and so she'd given the spell's creator a piece of her mind when an explanation for her experience was supplied.

"I wasn't referring to what you said at the meeting," Arelius clarified. "I'm talking about what you did in Oblivion. It was enough to escape with Sable, but to humiliate Mehrunes like you did was rash. Men have their pride, Portia, and great men more than a commoner. Your slight won't easily be forgotten." Portia couldn't agree more, and yet she was not sorry for what she had done. To have felt power over her captor for even a moment after what he'd done had been the only positive aspect of her journey.

"Do you know what he did to me?" she bitterly asked.

"I can imagine…"

"He burned me, and then he had me healed so that I could endure it all over again. I was forced to tell him exactly what I had been sent to do, and then I was locked away in the world's darkest hell hole for days until I thought I'd go mad. I was bleeding, cold, hungry, and the bastard didn't even bother with me after he'd thrown me there. I was left to rot, Arelius—left to rot until I managed to surprise and kill my guard, and then I had to run through a palace with bleeding hands and feet to find my damned scroll and Sable."

Portia's fists were clasped together, and her eyes closed as she finished speaking. Arelius said nothing, for he'd already heard her report at the meeting, and he had nothing with which to console her. He sensed that her memories would haunt her for a long time, much like the accidental murder had, but he didn't know the whole of it. There was far more to her story than what Portia had shared. There was a hell of a lot more…

_"Let me go!" she screamed while driving her dagger into the dremora's throat. His armor was open between the neck and shoulders, and that's where she aimed. The creature's warm blood pumped over her hands as she twisted the blade free, paranoia making her quickly abandon the scene. She was moving faster than she thought possible, for desperation was driving her onward. Being locked away without any light for days on end had flayed her nerves, and the palace's fires now burned her vision. She had escaped by a hairbreadth, having used her one small dagger to take down her guard after luring him inside of her cell. His body was somewhere several stories down in the dungeons, and it had probably already been discovered. _

_Gods, she had to run faster. She wouldn't go back to that cell with the feelings of nothingness that it instilled in her, and she wouldn't wait for a painful death at Mehrunes' whim. _

_Faster, faster, faster. _

_Portia was amazed that she had even gotten this far in her bid for freedom, and the fear that success would be thwarted chased her heels as she rounded a corner. These were familiar settings. She recognized this hallway, and yet, there were fewer guards than before, and those that remained were dispatched with slits throats. If it hadn't been for her Blade training, she'd have lost it, but as was, she crept expertly and focused on the task at hand with a single-mindedness that blocked out the sharp pain coursing through her feet with each step. _

_She had to find Mehrunes' chambers, for that was where Sable and her scroll were most likely kept. Sable would of course be there, and the scroll was valuable enough that he'd keep it, or so she hoped. She left a trail of red as she located the desired room with her keen sense of direction and memory, but it wasn't an easy task. She nearly collapsed at the door, for she had been cut in several places by dremora and lesser daedra, and the blood loss was beginning to slow her. She basically crawled across the last several feet of marble floor to grab what she'd come for. Fighting for consciousness, she felt dizzy and weak. The scroll was almost illegible due to her filthy hands, and yet she read it and felt the spell beginning to work its magic. _

_Crack!_

"_You again?" a voice asked in shock. "How did you…? You are brave, woman; I'll give you that much, but apparently your first lenient lesson did not sink in!" And the magic was pulling her to safety, but not fast enough for her liking. She could see Mehrunes clearly now. His chamber doors had broken from their hinges when he'd thrown them open, and his eyes flashed dangerously at the sight of her. He was shirtless and muscular, his skin a gentle red, and his bald head sporting two small horns. He had four arms, and they all went after his prey. _

_Fading in and out, Portia's body was being pulled away into another dimension. She was going home, but two of Mehrunes' hands seized on her torso, and another was cutting into her flesh with gods knew what. His fingernail, she realized. She was slicing her hip with his fingernails, and she screamed, but the sound seemed to be swallowed by space. _

"_You cannot escape so easily! I am the master here," Mehrunes bellowed, but she knew that he was wrong. Gods, his men had beaten the bottoms of her feet until they were raw and useless, and they'd torn her clothing and fondled her breasts, cast spells that shattered her nerves and made her sing confessions, and all for their dark master, who had been determined to wring everything from her, perhaps even the location of the last heir. She would have told him if she had known, and she was ashamed of that. She hated him as the thought hit her, and she wanted to humiliate him. She wanted to wound him like he had wounded her, and so her knife lashed out. It met the soft flesh of his naked chest and made him hiss in pain. Her hand reached for his face to scratch him has his grip on her tightened, but her fingers instead caught the ornament hanging from his left ear, ripping it free. His angry snarl was the last thing that she saw. _

"I took something from him like he took something from me," Portia stated. "I needed to do that, and if I'd been fully cognizant," she sighed, "I'd never have told the council about taking his earring." She tilted her head so that Arelius could see the orange orb dangling from her left ear. It was a luminescent ball swinging from a gold link, and it seemed to flare brightly with the intensity of Portia's mood. "It's fitting, don't you think?"

"I understand why you wear it, but it's dangerous to flaunt your victory like this. If he were to know, it would anger him more than you've already done." Portia snorted and crossed her arms. "It is, of course, your decision, and since the mages could find no spell or curse on it, they won't take it from you."

"Good, because I wouldn't let them have it."

"Portia."

"It is all I have, Arelius. My body will never fully recover from what Mehrunes did to it. For Akatosh's sake, his brand is on me, and I don't want it, but this..." She motioned to the earring. "This I took. Sometimes it all feels so dreamlike: thinking of the dark and his rough voice taunting me, or the twilight that drug me down into the bowels of his prisons…this lets me know that it was real and that I survived through sheer will."

"You've earned its keep," Arelius agreed, "And my respect along with it." Portia didn't want to, but his words made her swell with pride. She had fought for this man's approval for what felt like eternity, and now she knew with certainty that she had it. Oh, to hell with it. She didn't need his approval anymore, but then why was she so pleased with herself? She supposed that some things did not easily change, and spending six years pining for a man's attentions would do that to a person. _Don't let him know_, her mind warned.

"Thank you, captain." So much for that. "It means a lot."

"You deserve the praise. And now, I have work to attend to, and you need to get to your meeting." She was grateful that he brushed aside her obviously flushed face and that he didn't even make direct eye contact with her. The man was apparently feeling more merciful than usual today. She wondered if he'd always known how much she adored him, even if it had lessened considerably since leaving the Blades. Her desire for his respect was all that remained, and she was glad that the other aspects of her emotions for him had faded, for she owed a debt to his wife for tolerating her presence here. He and Lucretia were both quite generous with her, although more assignments were coming. She could feel it, and they'd be no easier to squirm out of than going into oblivion.

"Have a good day," she told Arelius in parting, and she immediately moved to the open streets. Her stride was sure and swift, for she didn't want to be detained by a passerby, and there were plenty of them this late in the morning. Some glanced at her questioningly, but few had any idea what she had recently endured. The Blades were keeping it silent, and she was grateful for that. The fewer who knew that she'd gone to oblivion and angered Mehrunes, the better. Of course, aristocratic women went after gossip like slaughterfish to fresh blood, but the rumors would be unsubstantial at best. Blade members would subtly discredit them until people gave them little regard.

"Morning," a male dark elf greeted, and Portia nodded in return. She felt so incredibly plain compared to these upper class folk, and so when her feet hit the lower class sections, she slid into an easier gait. It wasn't that she wanted to be upper class, for she didn't. She came from a merchant family, and while they had money, they didn't have the blood to ever fit in with the elites. No, it wasn't the upturned noses at her simple clothing that really bothered her. She was at home in peasant garb or velvet dresses, but it always depended on the occasion. As a guard and blade, she'd played a role, and each role had a costume. Now she didn't know what role she was playing, and so she had no idea how to dress. It bothered her that she was adrift without purpose yet knowing that others had one in mind for her. In many ways, at least having a mission would give her some direction and get her mind off of Mehrunes. A lack in goals had really been the greatest obstacle since leaving her job, and she was well aware of that. Arelius probably was too.

Was he giving her second chance by recruiting her to help fight oblivion? Had he seen her wasting away along the edge of the harbor, watching the waters roll for hours at a time? As her feet approached the white walls of the arcane university, she considered that perhaps Arelius hadn't given up his guiding role since her departure. If it was meant for their mutual benefit, it was definitely tough love, for he was forcing her to accept a second chance, not asking. Then again, maybe that was what she needed.

"I'm here for an appointment," she stated as she stepped inside the university's foyer. A short, balding man quickly nodded and looked for her name on a long list.

"Yes, we've been expecting you, Miss Augustine. This way please." Portia followed him through a gate and into the university, where a white paved road wound between buildings of equal perfection. She had no experience here since only mages were usually allowed to enter, but she tried to remember the path that they took out of habit. They entered another building and ascended several flights to a small library that was flooded with light from large windows. The smell of old books greeted Portia as her guide excused himself, and she was left alone with a thin Altmer.

The high elf sat behind a desk and held a book on his lap. At her approach, his head snapped upward, and Portia saw that he was in fact very young—no more than thirty, and smooth white hair was brushed backward over his high forehead and pointed ears. His seemingly gilded skin shone beautifully in the bright room, and his blue robes complimented his complexion. His eyebrows rose in delight at the sight of his new guest.

"Welcome!" he greeted. "You must be Portia Augustine. Please, have a seat." He motioned to the stool beside him, and Portia accepted the offer. "I'm Gilthan Lorenlee, expert in ancient literature and journeyman alchemist."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Portia responded with little interest. She wondered what tedious tests the mages would want to run on her now, yet she could not help but be intrigued by this man arranging a meeting with her. "If I may ask, what is this meeting for?"

"Well, you've been quite the topic of conversation among the masters," he explained, and Portia's eyes snapped to his face. "No, don't worry. Very few people have any idea what happened. It just so happens that my involvement was requested given your acquirement of—how should I phrase it?—a certain daedra lord's personal possession?" He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis, and Portia decided on the spot that he was by far the most expressive and quirky high elf that she had ever met. He rolled up his sleeves and flopped his book onto the table before them.

"The arch mages fear that perhaps you've suffered some negative side effects from your travels, and they asked me to investigate both that and the artifact that you brought back. I must say, they believe that Mehrunes will leave you alone since you're just one nameless woman, but you shouldn't believe that for a second. Do you?" Portia was busy staring at the picture in the book before her, for it depicted a large, four armed man with a black ponytail and orange earrings.

"No, and if they had seen how angry he was when I left, they wouldn't believe it either," she told him. "If there's anything that I remember from childhood stories, it's that the darker daedra lords aren't very forgiving."

"Smart decision," Gilthan agreed. "Because he's going to want you after what you took from him."

"How badly?" Portia warily asked.

"You have no idea," came the inappropriately chipper response. Portia studied the elf's face, and suddenly he leaned in closer. "Smile, lovely. I casted a silencing charm around this room, but they might still be watching, and I'm not supposed to be telling you any of this."

"Excuse me?" Portia demanded, but the elf had returned to a smile and his original posture.

"They say that you're safe, and we can believe the arch mages, right?"

"Right," Portia lied.

"Good," and the elf winked. "Now, about your condition, and this I can honestly tell you: you're fine. No permanent harm came from dimension travel, although I read about several cases where travelers were left with a connection to each realm. But if this were true, you'd be experiencing visions and disembodied voices and the like…are you experiencing that?"

"No."

"Then cross off that possibility. The second thing that we must discuss…"

"Hold on," Portia interrupted. "Can't you slow down a little? You're flying through this like crazy. I have some questions that I'd like answered, and…"

"Limited time," Gilthan pointedly said, and his face was again sober. "Pay attention. You can digest and think on everything I've said later. Now, look at this picture. It's much older than contemporary depictions of Mehrunes, and as you can see, he's wearing the earrings. All the ancient texts mention Mehrunes and chaos spheres, even if more recent art and texts—say from the last five hundred years—don't mention them at all.

The information was very difficult to find, but I found one mention of what the spheres actually are, and I had to break about fifty university rules to do that. Look…" He flipped the page and Portia found herself staring at a picture of Mehrunes, but this time he was a sleek young man with black hair and tanned flesh. "Mehrunes can change into a human form like most of the more powerful daedra, and it's said that he once roamed the world looking for a way to more effectively channel the power of his dominion. You see, chaos is a wild force, even for its lord. So Mehrunes found an old mage who helped him created the chaos spheres, which were simple metal earrings that chaos was concentrated into. The wearing of them could supposedly open a direct link with oblivion and its energy, and hence potentially harness that realm's power to personal use."

"You're saying that the earring I'm wearing can access oblivion's power?" Portia asked, puzzled and slightly unnerved.

"Yes, and the longer you wear it, the more you might feel that connection."

"So I won't wear it," Portia affirmed.

"Listen," Gilthan said, gripping her arm. "People will want what you have. Mehrunes will probably do anything to get it back, and you're proving remarkably resistant to its effects. You're only having nightmares, but others would probably accidently burn themselves into a crisp. The last human to touch them was the mage who helped create them, and he disintegrated due to a power overload."

"So why am I alive?" Portia asked, shocked. A hand flew to her ear, and she touched the orange orb with trepidation.

"That's the thing," the elf whispered. "No one knows, and the mages won't take it because they might die if they channel its energy."

"But don't they want it?" she asked. "Arelius told me that they said I can keep it."

"Don't you see; they're scared, both of its power and its potential in the wrong hands. The more ignorant you are while holding it for them, the better. Be very careful, Portia Augustine, and take these notes. Let no one see them. I'm probably the only honest person you'll speak to until this is settled." A small stack of parchment was slipped into her hands, and Portia barely got it stuffed into her tunic before someone burst into the library. This was all incredibly overwhelming, and she was waiting for the significance of this conversation with Gilthan to hit her like a brick to the head. Hopefully she'd recover quickly.

"Gilthan, you were told to wait for the master," the newcomer, a female Argonian, objected.

"Don't make a fuss!" Gilthan laughed. "I've taken care of the problem, and Miss Augustine is just fine."

"Really?" the woman asked.

"Yes," Portia smiled. "I'm not dying, the earring is harmless, and I get to sleep easier tonight. I haven't felt this assured in weeks." The Argonian's shoulder relaxed and she smiled, or what Portia thought was a smile. She always had a hard time telling with the aquatic, lizard people.

"The master will be glad to hear it. I can escort you out, if you're ready, ma'am."

"That would be wonderful. Thank you again, Gilthan. Perhaps we could talk again at a later time, over dinner perhaps?" The elf laughed and rolled his eyes.

"Let's not rush things," he joked. "I like to take things slowly." He winked at her again as she left the room, the earring brushing her neck as she turned. Was it her or did it suddenly feel warm? Had it always been warm? She wasn't sure if she was imagining things or not, but she definitely felt heavier leaving the library. She had far more to worry about than she'd known, but then again, at least she knew, and that was half the battle. Arelius had always taught her that knowledge was power, and she took that advice to heart. She wondered where he fit into this scheme and whether the mages were merely trying to protect her or if there was more to this story. Only time would tell.


	4. Chapter 4: Late Night Visitors

Chapter 3:

The knock was soft but audible, and it roused the napping man from his place by the fire. The flames were dying down this late into the cool night, and he cursed himself for being less attentive. This was not the sort of time to be dozing, and the knock was his reminder. With a yawn, the Imperial rose and stretched while pulling a poisoned dagger from his belt. Either the company that he'd been expecting had arrived or someone less desirable had decided to stop by. Where was that damned Nordic guard when he wanted him? And suddenly he remembered that he'd fired the moron for stealing alcohol from the stores. Still, the extra muscle would have been nice about now. He wasn't a man who was terribly skilled at combat, for diplomacy was his field, and he was accustomed to hiring others for less pleasant work.

_I can still spill blood_. He moved toward the door and opened a small, gated window at its center. He loathed direct combat like that which he'd seen in the arena, and yes, he had attended the battles on several occasions to satisfy parties that he'd happened to be accompanying, but hacking and slashing was not his idea of worthwhile combat. Honor, bravery—screw it. A knife in the back was so much simpler and more appealing. It was with that thought in mind that he stared at the cloaked figure beyond his door. The black cowl hid anything of the person's face, and old stories of the dark brotherhood came to mind, but Horace Pantrov brushed them aside.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"We serve the same master," came the enigmatic reply. So it _was_ the company that he'd been expecting. Excellent.

"Quietly," Horace warned as he unlocked the door and stepped aside. The cloaked figure entered his home, which was situated in the Elvin Gardens District, and moved to stand by the fire. "Some wine?"

"That would be acceptable." Horace moved to a nearby cupboard and poured two glasses before seating himself in his previous position. His visitor remained standing, and Horace wondered if it was an attempt at intimidation. He could still make out nothing of his visitor except that the man was tall and swimming in robes one size too large. Even the voice gave no hint of race or personality, for it was controlled and neutral. Mehrunes had chosen his representative well.

"How can I be of service?" Horace asked, and he wished that he could at least tell if the visitor was looking at him, but despite his annoyance, he was too well trained to betray his emotions. Danger drifted of this person in waves, telling Horace to keep himself politely distant. He would behave himself like the diplomat that he was.

"Our master is planning a visit to the capitol," the dark figure stated.

_Oh really?_ Horace knew that Mehrunes Dagon was a proud being who considered humans lesser creatures, so why would the daedra lord choose to appear as a weakling? It made no sense given the prince's disposition, and there was also the fact that Mehrunes was barred from this plane of existence, at least for the time being. Horace's surprise over these events must have shown, for his visitor's hood turned toward him, and the man's smile could be assumed from his tone.

"It is quite possible for our lord to come here," the laughing tone stated.

"Then the barrier is breaking," Horace approvingly nodded.

"Yes, but it is not time yet. His power here will be...lesser than it would be otherwise. The dragon fires have not been extinguished long, but our day approaches..."

"What's the occasion for Lord Dagon's visit?" Horace asked. _And don't you think that our lord will be a little noticeable?_ The daedric princes were all very distinct in appearance, and Mehrunes was less human looking than someone like Sheogarth or Azura. He actually looked like some demon from a fairytale, and Horace had visited enough shrines to know that with certainty. On another note, wasn't the prince of destruction a little busy with his plans for world domination? Why come to the capitol?

"He is looking for the last heir," the dark figure was saying. "And he is tired of waiting for a decent contact in this city. He is displeased with your service, Horace. You have not discovered who is in the Blades or where the heir might be."

"I am doing my best considering that I must keep up appearances."

"Regardless, more is required. Our master will arrive in a week's time, and he expects you to provide a front for him. He is a diplomat and nobleman from Morrowind—one who worked in the royal court as an envoy in the Mercutino family." Hadn't that line died off? Horace folded his hands over his lap and listened carefully, his mind already spinning possibly explanations for a guest. "He will explain the details, and he shall stay with you when he first arrives."

"Old friends?" Horace guessed, a little unnerved by the thought of Mehrunes being under his roof. Serving the prince for gold and future status was one thing, but meeting him was another. He'd only ever spoken to representatives, not the man himself. This was going to be a real challenge, but a great opportunity if he played his cards well.

"Tell people what you like, but be prepared for his arrival. Also, he wishes for you to find out if the Blades have acquired any artifacts lately—specifically, one that might be stored at the arcane university. He knows that it is within the city walls, but not where. He very much wishes to get his hands on this artifact, and that will be a primary reason for his presence." Horace arched an eyebrow. Mehrunes was artifact hunting? He couldn't imagine how powerful the object would have to be to draw Mehrunes' attention and physical presence.

"You will, of course, make this worth my time," he stated. He was surprised when his visitor laughed, and what a nasty laugh it was. It rubbed against his nerves with its harshness, and he decided that he never wanted this man to visit him again.

"Perhaps you should ask our lord what he'll offer you. After all, he'll be here soon. I'm sure he'll indulge you." Horace kept a straight face as he stood from his seat and took a sip of wine.

"Derision is unnecessary," he calmly commented. "Can I interest you in a place to stay for the evening?" _Please say 'no'_. "Or perhaps you require food before departure?"

"Keep your stores. I am done here." Horace was happy to see the man heading for the door, and he held it open while his guest left. As the cloaked figure began walking away, he stepped outside with the wine glass in hand.

"Exactly how will I know him when I see him?" he asked.

"You'll know." And Horace shut the door, no longer aware of the cool breeze that swept inside with the action. This was going to be a long week. With a single motion, he downed the rest of his wine and decided that he needed another glass.

***********************

Portia read through the notes that Gilthan had given her and sighed. She wondered where he had learned all of this, for she had never even dreamed of the existence of chaos sphere or their ilk. Sure, everyone knew about the daedric princes. Children were raised being told that if they didn't behave, Molag Bal would get them, or that if they strayed into the woods, Clavicus Vile would appear as a child and trick them. Most of them were not particularly nice stories, and the princes were intimately involved in almost every aspect of life from history to art, and even events that she'd witnessed, like the madness of one of her former neighbors. That would be Sheogarth's doing, and his followers were absolute nut cases. Each daedra had worshippers, and Portia subscribed to none of them, especially not Sheogarth.

Gilthan's notes supplied her with information on the powerful entities that she had never before known since she'd never before paid attention to the daedra. According to his research, the daedric princes could assume human form to interact with mortals, although they usually didn't bother. For instance, Mehrunes did not favor humans since he preferred more powerful and violent beings like dremora, and so he deemed it beneath him to assume human shape. He was only rumored to have done so once, and it had been to make the chaos spheres. Of course, if he had transformed at other times, who had lived to tell the tale? Portia didn't imagine that many survived encounters with him, and so she turned to the next page of notes.

Mehrunes was destructive, but he maintained an orderly domain in the deadlands. In fact, compared to other daedra, he was extremely rigid in controlling his followers. They were trained fighters and enforcers of his will, and they dwelled in a city where merit earned them rewards.

"Some preferred to wander the human plane of existence, and they could often be found at daedric shrines," Portia read aloud. That, she had known, but what she hadn't realized was that Mehrunes was trapped in oblivion the majority of the time. Oh, he could leave, but his presence in this realm was never whole, and since the Septims had taken the throne, powerful wards had prevented him from leaving his realm. He rarely escaped, and Gilthan had left her a small note that suggested that Mehrunes was probably still bound to oblivion since he had not managed a large assault on the human realm yet. That revelation brought some relief to Portia, but she couldn't prevent a chill from running down her back. The thought of Mehrunes searching for her...

_He's in oblivion_. _You're in a lovely house surrounded by guards._ Summoning the resolve that had carried her through dark halls to seek a scroll and pendant, Portia flipped another page and continued to peruse the notes. Part of her knew that desperation, not pure bravery, had saved her, but then one hand lifted to touch the earring dangling beside her face, and she remembered her anger at Mehrunes' attack on her body. The anger was gone, but the determination to never break at the brute's feet remained. She was not weak, even if she had gone to the market and bought herself a discount sleeping potion this afternoon. She would struggle through, and maybe, just maybe, she'd keep her life.

Portia shook her head and refocused on the notes before her. She soon found herself immersed in their information, and despite her recent experience, Mehrunes' lore was strangely fascinating. Very little was known about him besides his involvement in Mournhold's destruction and some political tampering, but he was definitely an ambitious and tampering being. Gilthan recommended a book to her, and she decided to check that out later, but until then, she supposed that it was very late. Perhaps tonight she would sleep well since Mehrunes was locked away, and she did have that potion. The seller's advice had been to take the sleeping draught directly before bed and to carefully clear her mind. Normally Portia wouldn't have even bothered to seek help, but she did not know how much of her nightmares were her own doing or the chaos sphere's effects on her body. After all, Gilthan had warned her about a connection to oblivion.

"Here goes nothing," she mused, and uncorked a purple bottle. The liquid inside was oddly chilling as it ran down her throat, and the effects were almost immediate. Her knees wobbled, and she quickly slipped into bed. The window was open as usual, for she loved the breeze while she slept, and the soft blankets rubbed warmly against her chin. Never mind that the air was cool, for it reminded her of home, and there was something incredibly peaceful about that. She checked to make sure that the usual knife was under her pillow, and then she closed her eyes.

The dreams began almost immediately, and as she tossed and turned, the orange orb against her neck began to glow. Its depths swirled like fire, almost burning her skin, and the sensation would have normally awoken the sleeping woman, but the potion had taken effect. Portia was lost to the world.

…

…

…

She sat on the chair where she'd been tossed, but she could barely keep upright. Her hands were tied behind her, and one eye was almost swollen shut from a sharp slap across the face. Apparently the dremora interrogating her didn't appreciate her calling his master a sick bastard. It was the truth though. Who else would order his assistants to do 'anything necessary' to get her to talk? So far it'd be rather mild, but she wasn't fool enough to think that it would last. Perhaps she should just talk. She had nothing to gain by silence except maybe a twisted sense of satisfaction, and she wasn't sure that such a sentiment would override pure physical torment.

"I told you to speak, human," the dremora said, voice neutral. He clearly didn't care about his task one way or the other, and in the silence following his words, Portia ran eyes over his red and black armor. It was grotesque but suited his intimidating presence, and the equipment was highly sought after as the top heavy armor in Tamriel. Very few people could brag about owning such magnificent protection.

"How did you get into oblivion?" the dremora again asked.

"A spell," Portia half-answered, knowing that it wouldn't satisfy this being.

"Such a spell doesn't exist. Speak the truth."

"It is the truth!" Portia retorted. "Why don't you just feed me some tell-all potion and get it over with?" The dremora's face didn't alter from its stony expression, even when he hit her so hard that she fell from the chair. Her head was spinning, and she fought for consciousness. Damn her mouth, but aggressive comments were the only way to keep from buckling under this being's demands. She could feel the cracks running through her resolve.

"Human, Master Dagon wants this information, and he _will_ get it. If you do not tell me, he will come to question you himself, and you don't want that." Portia rolled over, her swollen hands aching with pain from bindings that were too tight, and stared up at her captor. She knew this was a dream, a memory of what she had already endured. She knew that she was about to be hit with destruction magic, and yet she felt powerless to avoid the pain. She would wake up bleeding yet again.

Perhaps she could change what happened and escape this nightmare, but the thought was incoherent and fuzzy as the destruction spell hit her. Everything felt so real, from the cold stones beneath her to the smell of charred flesh. She lost her sense of reality, and yet it whispered from the recesses of her consciousness. _Fight it, Portia. You can control your own mind_.

She should be waking up about now. She half expected to open her eyes and find herself in bed, blood on the sheets yet again. Wet copper filled her mouth and dribbled from her chin, and she wished that the dremora would flip her onto her side so that she could spit out her own blood. He wouldn't. He never did, and it frustrated her.

_Damn it, Portia. This is only a dream!_

"Enough!" she yelled, and instantly the pain ceased. She slowly opened her eyes to find that the dremora stood frozen, and she quickly scooted into a sitting position, the stones hard and freezing beneath her skin.

_It's a dream_. The full realization made her smile in grim satisfaction, but she was also confused. On the rare occasions where reason won out over pain, the full realization of dreaming was immediately followed by waking up. That was how it worked, although she almost always woke up from the pain of her hip rather than consciously escaping. So why wasn't she awake right now? She couldn't even fathom how she was so coherent while asleep.

"Ouch!" she gasped as she stood. In dreamland, the mark on her hip was gone, but when she touched where it should have been, intense pain shot through her side. She was bleeding in her bed, but the pain wasn't waking her. "Damn sleeping draught," she realized. That had to be the explanation, and so she was trapped here for some indeterminate time, left to do nothing but curse the mage who had sold her the potion. He had warned that the draught worked differently for different people. Sometimes the drinkers were left dreaming of pleasant things, and others didn't dream at all. In both cases, a full night's sleep was guaranteed, and Portia wondered if that perhaps meant that you could have horrible dreams but not wake up. You would, after all, get the promised amount of sleep whether or not it was pleasant. She should have known better than to blindly trust a potion seller's word.

With nothing to do, she began walking, and she was amazed that none of the guards bothered her. They walked by her like she wasn't there, and what was even more puzzling was that she did not recognize her surroundings. When she relived her memories, she obviously only revisited places that she'd actually seen. This was definitely still oblivion, but she was in areas of the palace where she'd never wandered. To her left, she saw a strange statue of a human wrapped in chains, and she wondered how her dreamy mind had imagined it. Perhaps these images were being conjured by her subconscious, but there was no way to know her certain.

She paused beside an open room where two dremora were conversing in a strange tongue. Their voices were gruff and seemingly excited, but that was only a guess. They jabbered away, and Portia was about to leave when she caught the word 'Skingrad'. Her eavesdropping felt strangely real rather than fabricated as she moved closer to the figures, and she was shocked when one of the dremora laughed and said something in common tongue.

"We'll hold them." The other joined in the laughter. Hold them? Portia hadn't heard anything about an attack on Skingrad, but this was a dream, and it didn't need to make sense. Her feet continued moving, and then she found herself at _his_ rooms. Her blood chilled and she stood facing his doors in trepidation.

_This is ridiculous. It's a dream_. She had taken one of his most powerful artifacts in retaliation and lived to tell the tale, so surely she could survive this. She steeled her nerves and moved forward, stepping into the familiar room that she knew belonged to Mehrunes Dagon. She nearly had a heart attack when she saw him there, pacing across the floor before his bed. Two of his arms were behind his back, and the others hung at his sides, clenching and unclenching. He only wore a black and gold cloth wrapped around his waist, exposing most of his body to Portia's view, and terrified at she was, she remained stock still and watched him. His perfectly sculpted, muscular form move back and forth as her mouth grew increasingly dry. And in her silent stance, she noticed for the first that Mehrunes Dagon moved like and had the habits of a human, even if he looked like a demon.

Then his head turned in her direction.

Portia stiffened. She couldn't help it. Even though this was a dream and not a memory, his presence seemed to suffocate her, and those black eyes was looking right at her, not through her like the other beings that she'd encountered here. Her heart pounded, and her hand unconsciously searched her waist for the dagger that was normally there, but Mehrunes did not move. He uttered something in the same unintelligible tongue as the dremora, and when he received no response, he continued pacing.

"Gods," Portia breathed in relief, wanting nothing more than to leave this place, yet she stayed and watched the lord of oblivion. She was almost afraid that moving would break the peace and make him attack her. She knew from firsthand experience that he was incredibly strong. She had never stood a chance at escape when he seized her that first time, annoyed to find a human in his personal space. She was surprised that he had merely roughed her up and then tossed her to his guards for questioning, for she'd half expected him to personally handle the matter, and yet, he had left. Perhaps other business had called. Ruling an entire domain had to be demanding.

_Are you really thinking about this now, Portia?_

She took a tentative step backward and prepared to leave. Standing in Mehrunes' room and contemplating his personal life and physical strength was not what she wanted to be doing. She backed away, but stopped when he suddenly stopped. Her heart began racing again, and she was unpleasantly surprised when he turned in her direction and approached. Like a frozen rabbit, her legs tensed while she remained still. He wasn't exactly looking at her, but his eyes were roaming the general area as if searching for something.

His large frame came closer and closer, and Portia couldn't help but back up now.

_It's a dream_, she reminded herself. If she could cut and tear at the real Mehrunes, she could handle a replication in her sleep. She stopped moving and refused to budge as the daedric prince halted not two feet from where she stood. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. One of his arms extended toward her, and she gasped when it grazed her cheek. It didn't exactly touch her, for his fingers sailed right through what should have been solid flesh, but she felt the contact. His skin was warm, but the nails sharp, and a strange burning sensation on the side of her neck accompanied his touch.

"What do we have here?" Mehrunes mused, voice low and thoughtful. Portia didn't understand what was happening, because this was a dream, yet it felt as real as any memory that she'd relived. _Let me out_. That's what she wanted, but she could not leave, and now Mehrunes was reaching for her chest, although he obviously couldn't see her. If he could…well, she didn't want to think about that.

His hand passed through her chest and left her tingling with an uncomfortable sensation. She spun on her heels and ran from his chambers, deciding to go before the dream grew any stranger. She kept moving until she found a dark corner where she sat panting against the wall, the feel of his hands fresh in her mind. She waited there for the draught to wear off, and she kept checking by jabbing herself in the side. Eventually the pain had to wake her, and it did, but not until the late morning hours. The potion had done its job; she'd slept through the entire night.


	5. Chapter 5: Dreams or Visions

Chapter 4:

This wouldn't do. She had to do something with herself, and Portia knew it. She sat on the edge of her bed, the bloody bandages that she had just removed lying on the floor by her feet, and a hand gingerly rubbing a burn mark on her neck. She couldn't sit here all day and think about her dream or the burn that the chaos sphere had caused, even if the night's events consumed her thoughts. Her mind kept turning inward, visualizing Mehrunes coming toward her, and she wondered what exactly had happened. Perhaps she could ask Gilthan, but then again, speaking openly with him might prove difficult. The Arcane University was off limits to most people, and if she was granted access, the other mages would know of her presence.

And what was Arelius up to? Surely he wouldn't harm her, but she didn't think that she could speak to him about her personal distress either. Besides the fact that he was an authority figure, she didn't want to overstep her bounds and make him think that she was the same, adoring girl from before. Gods, but she could imagine him now, sitting across from her at a tavern table on one of the rare occasions that he went out with his subordinates. And she had been foolish enough to speak to him about private matters, namely, the death of her parents and her desire to become something other than an orphan. He had been kind and offered comforting words, and perhaps it had been the alcohol in both of them, but he had mentioned that he too felt the urge to control his life and make it worthwhile. It had made Portia think that they were two of a kind, and maybe in some sense they were, but she never wanted him to see her as that smitten, fresh recruit ever again. The man had probably shaken his head at her suppressed feelings whenever her back was turned.

_No feelings now_, she thought. Now she just wanted dreamless sleep and a path that didn't involve holding other peoples' lives in her hands. She stood and moved downstairs, briefly pausing beside the entrance to the sitting room when she heard a cup rattle against a saucer. Lucretia tended to take her morning meals here, while the children were busy with lessons and Arelius was away at work. Portia was more interested in finding Gilthan, but she knew that she owed her hostess some attention and gratitude.

"Morning," she greeted, popping her head into the room. Lucretia smiled and lifted her eyes from the book that she was reading. The woman really was lovely with her raven colored hair and elegant features.

"And good morning to you, Portia. You seem to have slept better last night." Portia inwardly winced, knowing full well that Lucretia and Arelius heard her screams whenever a nightmare was particularly rough. The first time that she had screamed, Arelius ran into the room with a drawn sword, thinking that there was an attack. He and his wife had quickly learned to bear the unexpected yells, and Portia, for her part, had tried to sleep with her face shoved in a pillow.

"I took a potion," she explained. "It helped."

"But you still have nightmares?" Lucretia guessed.

"I think that I'll always have nightmares." Lucretia's book was set aside, and she calmly regarded Portia with the eyes of someone who understood troubled nights. Her entire demeanor spoke of a patient and conditioned strength that Portia rather envied.

"Sometimes all you can do is bear the worries," the woman stated. "Sometimes, you can even get used to and accept them. Arelius has a dangerous job, and sleep does not always come easily."

"For you," Portia knew.

"Yes," Lucretia said with a soft smile. "He, of course, sleeps soundly. I'm the one left to toss and worry, but it's easier now. I've had years of practice. It's mainly the children that I worry about...life without a father would be difficult." And Portia wondered if the man who'd died under her watch had left an anxious family behind. As her sword parted his skin, had he thought about his children? She didn't particularly want to know, and she distractedly shifted her eyes to Lucretia's hand, which was reaching for her tea cup. Portia tried to think of something to say, but conversations with Lucretia tended to be a bit stilted. The women simply didn't have much of a basis for interaction, at least not one that was apparent.

"He wishes to speak with you later," the elder woman told Portia. "He'll be home late, but I suspect that you are used to odd hours. He mentioned that you once worked under him." Portia made a low sound of acknowledgement, and Lucretia gently smiled. "He said that you wouldn't want to talk about it."

"That I don't," Portia agreed.

"And he'd like you to see a healer about your injury. You're bleeding more than you should, even if the wound won't fully heal. You'd be wise to take his advice." Portia nodded, trying to gauge how much Arelius confided in his wife.

"Thank you for your concern. I'll look into it when I go out today." Not likely. She was off to investigate how best to contact Gilthan.

"There's no need for that," Lucretia softly smiled. "A temple healer will be here within the hour." Akatosh above, the woman was as bad as her husband, even if she looked more innocent when making such subtly maneuvers. Portia nearly smiled, feeling a sense of affinity with her hostess for the first time. Even if this was meddlesome, it was the first that they'd interacted at a level beyond strict business and politeness.

"He told you that I wouldn't go if you didn't make me, didn't he?" Portia knowingly asked.

"He might have implied it, but I arranged this myself."

"He'll be pleased with you," Portia sighed as she sat down beside Lucretia, and the other woman tilted her head with a bright sparkle to her eyes.

"You can't come from the social circles that I do without learning a few things about people, and while you are my guest, I will see to your health. Would you like anything? I can call a servant." Portia had never been waited on by a servant in her life, except maybe when she'd been undercover once at a ball, and that had been years ago. The rest of the time, she had usually been acting as a commoner or herself, watching from a distance and then switching into her armor for action. There had been better equipped agents—women like Lucretia—to move on more social missions. Of course, she could always ask Lucretia if she was a Blade, but she was certain that she wouldn't get a straight answer.

"I'm fine," Portia said. "I don't usually eat breakfast." It was nauseating to eat when she woke up in pain.

"Understandable, but surely you would like something to drink? Alcohol this early in the morning is not the best thing." So the woman had seen her little collection of bottles beside the bed. It really wasn't surprising, and Portia was sure that Lucretia knew much about her personal habits. The servants probably reported everything to their mistress, for it was Lucretia who ran the household. Arelius was too busy with Blade and guard business, and Lucretia was certainly capable of handling things on her own.

"I'll take some tea, since you've trapped me here with your healer," Portia allowed.

"Trapped is a rather ungrateful term to use. If I don't do this, I'm afraid that the servants might murder you for dirtying so many linens."

"I'd like to see them try, but I _am_ sorry about the sheets. I do bandage my wounds before bed. Sometimes it's simply not enough..." And just then a servant walked in to announce the healer's arrival. Lucretia and Portia exchanged a secretive smile when the servant glared at Portia, and a nonverbal understanding gently passed between them. Perhaps friendship was possible after all. It would make Portia's presence much easier on the household, and she sensed that Lucretia would be a worthwhile connection in times of trouble. Her instincts told her that such considerations were not only positive but necessary.

*****************

"And then the bubbles erupted into fireballs, and all I could do was hide beneath a table," Gilthan stated with a wide sweep of his arms. "Ridiculous, if you ask me. If J'mira does one more reckless experiment, I'm going to request that my rooms be moved. I'm surprised that I'm still standing." He grinned as the people around him chuckled in humored understanding.

"Come now, Gilthan," an old, female Breton smiled. "We all know that you love the excitement, and stop acting that you're a victim." Gilthan was about to reply when another mage entered the room, his voice muffled by the large stack of books that he carried.

"Someone is here to see you, Gilthan." The high elf's eyebrows shot upward in delight, for he loved guests—depending on who they were. Really, he spent so much time tied to the library under Irlav Jarol's research directives, that even _he_ got sick of books. Of course, he had been getting even less sleep than usual the last few nights, for he'd been sneaking about to read about oblivion and Mehrunes Dagon. Progress was slow, and the counsel kept its eye on who was accessing books with darker content. It was a nuisance to be sure, and with one misstep, someone might start to question why Gilthan was suddenly interested in a daedric prince. Discovery might then lead to harsh repercussions since the subject of chaos spheres was so touchy. His forefathers help him, but he wasn't suppose to know as much as he did.

"And where is my guest waiting?" he asked.

"She's on the steps out front," and the overloaded herald shuffled off.

"Another admirer?" someone asked Gilthan.

"I cannot help that I am attractive and witty," the elf huffed with faked disdain. "I shall see you all at some later date. Goodbye." He was off, walking the familiar corridors and wondering who was calling on him. When he exited the university's front gate to be met by Portia, he was truly surprised and a bit concerned about the attention that her presence would bring to him. Another mage was standing nearby, easily within earshot of their meeting, and Gilthan knew that this would not look good.

"Hello, Gilthan," Portia greeted with a huge smile. "I was hoping that we could have that lunch that you promised." His nerves relaxing, Gilthan thanked the gods for his reputation as a charmer. This would be perfectly believable if he simply acted like himself.

"And hello to you, fair Portia," he said, walking forward and winking at her. "I thought that you hadn't taken me seriously."

"I take you very seriously," Portia stated. "And I know the perfect spot for a meal, if you're interested."

"Of course I'm interested!" Gilthan beamed, honestly delighted at the prospect of going out for the afternoon. His eyes swept toward the basket in Portia's hands, and he glanced questioningly at her.

"Picnic," she explained.

"Ah, that would be perfect. Lead the way." They strolled side-by-side, Portia directing them out of the university and a short way along the coast. She kept her eyes out for mudcrabs, and Gilthan kept scanning the air for any residue signs of magic. Portia might have been oblivious, poor with magic as she was, but Gilthan could sense attention on them. From the university, certain mages might be tracking Portia, and even if they weren't eavesdropping, the picnic would not go unnoticed.

"I hope that this won't be a problem," Portia commented as she sat on a grassy patch of land beside the water. She faced the shimming depths of blue while keeping a small hill to her back, the slope of which afforded a convenient back rest. "I know that the mages are keeping tabs on me, but I needed to speak with you, and I didn't know how else to contact you."

"It's quite alright," Gilthan assured as he flopped down beside her, his blue robes spreading out around him. "I should have told you how to contact me. I'm afraid that you're request to see me might be..."

"Conspicuous?" Portia guessed.

"To certain people, yes, but I believe that we are safe to talk here. So, what would you like?" Portia slightly frowned as she stared out over the water. Mountains rose in the distance, clouds crowning their peaks, and the river's surface danced with insects and lilies. It would have been beautiful if not for her concerns.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about a dream I had," she said.

"My dear lady," Gilthan gasped. "There's no need to jump straight to business. Please. I was actually asking what you'd prefer to drink." Portia blinked.

"I only brought water."

"Ah, but I can remedy that. Red or white?"

"Red," and she found herself smiling. This high elf really did know how to catch her off guard. He was the polar opposite of the people whom she was accustomed to working with, namely Arelius a few other blades whom she'd grown close to. It was business first, leisure later with those types of professionals, but Gilthan...Well, as she watched him grin and summon a bottle of red wine from thin air, she wasn't sure how to characterize the man. Certainly he was jovial and a bit impulsive, but she was willing to bet that he was rather crafty and intelligent as well.

"Here you are," Gilthan said as he passed her a filled mug. "Now, what were you saying? And please don't forget to unload that basket. I can smell the fresh bread from here." Portia began unpacking the food as she thought about what she should tell the elf. Honesty seemed the best approach, for despite his lackadaisical nature, she found herself trusting this man.

"I had a very strange dream last night," she began, and from there the story unraveled with every possible detail. Gilthan munched on a sandwich as he listened, and Portia noticed the sharp, thoughtful gleam to his eyes as he digested her words. His face even twisted into a frown at one point, and by the time she was finished, he had forgotten about the food.

"So you are unsure whether the dream was only a figment of your imagination or something more," Gilthan contemplated. "I'm inclined to agree with the latter. Dreams are funny things, but from what you've said, and the burn mark on your neck...You're sure that the burning coincided with Mehrunes' touch?"

"Yes." Portia poured herself more wine.

"Interesting...the chaos sphere is probably affecting you, but the question is in what capacity. Its influence will definitely increase with time, which is why it's important that the mages find a solution soon, but...hmmm. The dream itself probably wasn't dangerous, so I wouldn't worry about that. Visions never result in physical harm to my knowledge, but whether or not you'll be negatively affected in other ways, I can't say. Magic is a funny, fluid thing, and when it comes to powerful artifacts, there's no telling what could happen."

"Do you think that it'd be wise for me to continue exploring the dreams?" Portia asked.

"I really don't know enough about it to say, but I don't think that you're in danger since technically, you were in your room the entire time. It was only your mind pulling you deeper, and for all my jabbering, it might have been absolutely nothing."

"I wasn't actually in oblivion? I could have sworn that I was. It all felt so real, and it wasn't illogical like a normal dream. I actually felt like time was moving at a regular pace for most of the time."

"Being in oblivion would have been impossible," Gilthan decided. "Do you remember when I said that people sometimes have connections with other dimensions?" Portia nodded. "If you are indeed one of those people, visions and dreams still don't physically move you. They only allow you to see into another place, and we don't even know if what happened to you was a vision. It's possible that the sphere painted the scenes in your mind, and it's even possible that since Mehrunes wears the other sphere, that a brief connection formed between them. Twin artifacts have been known to retain strong ties to one another, and with a willpower like Mehrunes searching for the other earring, I'd say that what you experienced was part fantasy and partly oblivion's doing."

"That doesn't sound as bad as I thought it would," Portia sighed in relief.

"Keep in mind that this is speculation, but unless you have evidence that you're experiencing something that goes beyond your own mind, I don't know what else to tell you. Everyone that I could ask would, unfortunately, be unhappy with your knowledge of the sphere, and then it'd probably be out of the guild for me."

"I'll let you know if anything happens," Portia promised. "And thank you for your help."

"Oh, dear," Gilthan said. "Don't make me out to be a knight or anything. And have you looked at the book that I recommended?"

"I'll do that soon."

"Good. Now pass the jam if you would."

"Sometimes I wonder about you," Portia commented.

"Really? Me too, but you have to admit that I have character." That he did. "And strawberry jam is my favorite," he beamed when he realized what flavor he was holding. Portia nodded absently, for she was distracted by the sound of furious hooves beating against the path overhead. Both she and Gilthan turned to watch a rider charging in their direction.

"Black Horse rider," Portia stated.

"Yes, and a bit winded isn't he?" Gilthan said, standing. He brushed himself off and walked up the small hill to hail the rider. Now was as good a time as any to grab the news. "How goes it, friend?" he called. The rider slowed but did not fully stop.

"No time to talk," he bellowed. "I've got to get this news to the press."

"And what news is that?" Portia asked, curious. The rider looked like he hadn't stopped riding for hours on end.

"It's Skingrad," the man shuddered. Skingrad? It seemed to Portia that she had recently been thinking about the city, but she couldn't remember exactly why.

"What about the city?" she asked.

"It was attacked. An oblivion gate opened, and half the town has been destroyed." With that, he spurred his horse into action, and dust again flew about the path behind his disappearing form.

"Damn," Gilthan cursed. "Something has got to be done about the dragon fires. It's hard to sit and do nothing, isn't it?"

He received no answer.

"Portia?" The woman had gone incredibly pale, and the elf was suddenly concerned for her health. "Portia? Is something wrong?" The woman merely shook her head and muttered something about dremora. With a gentle touch, Gilthan forced her to look at him.

"I think something is definitely happening when I sleep," she stated. It was going to be a very long night, but she decided then and there that she needed to get another sleeping draught and see if perhaps there wasn't valuable information to be found in the palace of her nightmares.


	6. Chapter 6: Accepting Duty

Chapter 5: Accepting Duty

It was late in the night, but Portia knew that going to bed was pointless. Arelius the night owl wanted to speak with her, and so a candle burned beside her bed while she kept a silent vigil. Sand ran through her hourglass, and tired, green eyes watched its course. Her fingers gently clasped a sleeping draught, and the more she considered drinking it, the more she wondered whether or not she would be endangered in her dreams. If she could see Mehrunes, why couldn't he see her? Just because he couldn't see her last time didn't mean that he wouldn't tonight. He had sensed her presence before, even if he had no idea who she was.

_But you will go_.

She smiled humorlessly and set the potion on the nightstand beside her bed. Yes, she would go, because ignoring her problems wouldn't solve them. For now, it seemed that perhaps she was safe, and if she could constantly be reaffirmed that Mehrunes was in oblivion, then she had nothing to fear in the city. It seemed a good deal, and perhaps there was more to be found, but Portia quickly put that thought out of mind. She was no longer a Blade. She didn't need to think like one; yet her instincts to investigate and act had never truly left her. After the accident, she had thought that her desire to be involved would fade. Damn it, but she'd been sure that it _had_ until Arelius found her. Now she realized that the peace she'd found in stagnation had been a farce at best, and one maintained only through a fragile layer of distance from the rest of the world.

Thump.

She didn't even turn, for she knew who was knocking at the door.

"Come in," she invited, and she stood to greet her former leader. He was out of his armor, wearing only a tunic, britches, and boots, but he still managed to command attention in the half-light of the room.

"I saw the light beneath your door or else I would not have bothered you," he stated.

"Your wife gave me the impression that what you have to say is important," Portia replied. "I thought it best to wait for you." _Like the good little Blade that I was_. "Long night?"

"Blade business," he allowed, but gave no further details. Instead, he leveled brown eyes at her that were too official to appear sympathetic, but too human and knowing to be cold. "You have been letting yourself go since you left," he said, shutting the door behind him. "I knew that you'd gone to the harbor and found another job, even bought yourself a small shack, but I always thought that you'd come back once you had some time alone."

"I didn't want to come back."

"That's a lie," Arelius bluntly asserted. "And it's the first one that you've ever told me." He stepped closer, and Portia found herself irritated with herself for inwardly agreeing with him. "You had more drive than most of the people beneath me. You were less aggressive and took time to make decisions, but once they were made, you gave everything to completing your task. I watched your progress, Portia, and I was sorry to lose you. Given time, I thought you'd make a great captain, but part of that is understanding that people die on your watch. Everyone accepts the possibility of death."

"At the hands of the enemy," Portia clarified.

"Accidents happen, and it's time that you let go of yours."

"You still have use for me then," Portia commented, but she could find no heat to begrudge the man that. He was his job, and he made no apologies for it.

"There is always use for a person like yourself, Portia," Arelius stated. "You shouldn't be drifting. It's doing more harm to you than ever a mission did."

"You have something specific in mind."

"I need your assistance."

**************

1...2...

Tamil counted the number of shadowy figures that she saw disembarking the boat. This was strange indeed, and she didn't like it one bit. With her hawk-like eyes, she kept to the shadows and settled a hand on the hilt of her sword. A dark green cloak covered her leather armor, and a silencing spell kept her movements secret. Still, she was cautious beyond the usual, and for good reason. She'd been watching this boat for two days now, and only the crew had left its hold, but she knew that there were more people on that ship.

Lex also had his eyes on the crew, for they were unfamiliar to the harbor, and Arelius had asked his fellow captain to be on the lookout for trouble. Why? Well, that had to do with sensitive information coming from barely whispered rumors. Tamil might hate to admit it, but she had the Dark Brotherhood to thank for that, for they'd assassinated a nobleman whom the Blades had long suspected of Mythic Dawn sympathies. Now the man was dead, and it had given her an opportunity to root through his belongings. Among his holdings had been a letter confirming that the Mythic Dawn was trying to gain a stronger foothold in the capitol.

Her attention was diverted to the emergence of a third figure from the boat, who despite an invisibility spell, could be detected moving toward the city gates. Perhaps now was the time to investigate the ship, and she carefully moved across the stone walkway and down a few steps. The crew was out drinking, and the captain and a few men were in the main cabin. They wouldn't prove a problem if she was quiet.

Light feet tread across planks, and quick hands unlocked the hold. It was a quick descent, and then Tamil was in a narrow passage that she did not appreciate. It was a little tight for swinging a sword, and escaping a two-way assault would be difficult. Eyes narrowed in displeasure, she reached toward a door but froze with her hand against the wood. The hairs were rising on the back of her neck, and she turned to see who was behind her only to find herself alone. Of course, appearances could be deceiving. The feeling of being watched was uncomfortably nagging.

With a dagger unsheathed in case of a surprise attack, she moved into a small, private cabin, and found a large chest. It was time to see if the unknown figures had left behind any evidence of their allegiance, and even if they weren't with the Dawn, they were probably shifty undesirables anyway. And so Tamil worked with the ease of the professional snooper that she was, and it took only moments before the chest's lock clicked and opened. Then she was rooting through a stack of clothing and potions that seemed ordinary and harmless enough, but then her hands came across a thin scroll tucked into the folds of a red robe.

_The Mythic Dawn wear red_, she darkly thought, and a wave of disgust washed over her. They would disrupt the peace and stability of the empire—sell themselves to destruction for personal gain. They were pathetic, and she almost wished that they would return now so that she could slit a throat or two in vengeance for the emperor's murder. Cowards—to kill and run, hide while they waited for their lord to deliver them.

Again, the sensation of being watched plagued her, and Tamil froze, listening for the slightest noise only to hear nothing. She was a woman who trusted her intuition, and so knew that she had little time to spare. A few more seconds and then she would leave. The ship gently rocked, and the scroll in her hand unfurled.

Jackpot.

Dawn members had arrived here, and they were to remain hidden and await their master's call for assistance if he should desire it. What was Mehrunes planning for the city? Tamil's forehead furrowed in thought, and she tucked the scroll into her belt. With her mind occupied, she didn't notice that as she left the cabin, a thin shadow shifted behind her. She reached for the ladder, and a hand reached for her. When fingers tightened around her shoulder, instinct made her spin with her dagger already lashing outward. Blood fell, a scream tore the air, and feet pounded across the deck overhead. Tamil hoped that the approaching people were guards and not enemies...

******************

"There are other Blades," Portia pointed out, unsure of where Arelius was going with his vague comment about assistance. "And if this job is anything like the last one that you sent me on, I'd prefer to have no part in it." Arelius' stern face shifted ever so slightly, and she could tell that he was displeased with her. Shirking duty was perhaps the one trait that completely irritated him, sometimes to the point of expressing anger. She knew that he was about to use his lecturing tone on her.

"Enough, Portia," he said. "You would have done that job whether I blackmailed you into it or not, and don't act otherwise. You could never stop yourself from taking a task that you thought was important. Once I explained to you the horror that could result from failure, you would have accepted my proposal. It's not in you to surrender." And then she saw it, the extent of his disappointed at her decision to leave the Blades. It was there, in the lines of his face, and the steel edge to his voice. He had expected more from her, and that he wasn't voicing those exact words was a product only of his carefully controlled nature.

"I have never been able to forget his face," Portia said, feeling the urge to explain herself. She had never really talked about the accident since that night. "When he realized that he would die by my hand, his face was so confused—like he was asking me why. It wasn't suppose to be like that. A Blade shouldn't die at the hands of a friend." Gods, but Arelius understood her hesitancy to reenter her old life. And why the hell did he have to let her see his disappointment after all this time? Didn't he know how that stung?

"I don't want your pity," she told him. "I've had a lot of time to think about what happened...and I know that it wasn't my fault, but I need you to understand that I can never be that captain you envisioned. I learned my limitations that night, and I can't handle having the blood of someone whom I was supposed to protect on my hands. You...you weren't the only one disappointed that night."

"You can move beyond that," Arelius assured her. "You do not have to return in the capacity that bothers you." And his words sounded so good. Portia wanted to be active again. She yearned for the purpose that being a Blade had imparted, and this entire fiasco with the chaos sphere was actually making her more enlivened than she'd been in months. This was the opportunity that she'd been waiting for, and she'd only avoided it because she'd been too ashamed to go to Arelius on her own accord after her flight. Akatosh, but he was still the hand guiding her toward promise after all these years.

"Do you want to hear what I have to offer?" Arelius asked.

"Yes. You win."

**************

Tamil ducked beneath the wide arch of a longsword and nearly lost her footing in the process. Her attacker was partially camouflaged with a chameleon spell, and in the darkness of the night air, she was having difficulty escaping his thrusts and swings. The person was skilled, whoever he was, and he was not alone. Footsteps were running from the front cabin, and was that another person behind her? Where were the guards? She tried to keep the railing to her back so that she could not be encircled, but lunges were forcing her toward the ship's middle.

"Shit," she cursed. She was quickly being surrounded, and there was nowhere to go on such small a vessel. Perhaps...Yes, there was a little magicka left in her after all. The tips of her fingers glowed with energy, and then a small flame leapt from her palm. She aimed directly at a stack of crates.

"Stop her!" someone yelled. The world erupted in chaos as the deck burst into flames, the blaze's edge licking the mast, and the confusion of who was foe or friend mounted. Smoke blew into Tamil's face, and she coughed as she ran for the gangplank. She could make it. She'd made it out of tougher situations before, and though hands reached for her, she knocked the assailant into the inferno that had become the Golden Ram.

She was almost free from the deathtrap as the smoke cleared from her vision and gave her a view of the stone docks. She jumped over a wall of flames, her agile body easily clearing the flickering tips, but a second thump accompanied her landing. _Who...?_

"Ugh," she gasped, feeling a sharp sting in her abdomen. A hand instinctively went to the source of the pain, and warm blood soon coated her fingers as she probed her now opened skin. It wasn't a deep wound, she realized in relief. It was a gash that would not cost her life if she found help soon, but that was an afterthought to striking back at her opponent. He wasn't one of the crew members, but a tall, slender figure cloaked entirely in black, and his dagger shone with her blood. He raised the blade to strike again, but a vicious slice of own blade caught him across the back of the hand, causing him to drop his weapon with a hiss of surprised pain.

Tamil ran for life then, ignoring the sting of magic flying at her back as she left the glow of the burning ship behind her. The wound was sending the strangest shivers through her body, and she wondered if blood loss or shock was affecting her. One hand remained clasped to the painful cut while the other reached for the closest stone wall. She felt cold, lethargic, like her limbs were burdened.

_Poison._

The sound of pursuit echoed in her foggy mind as her feet ran for the one safe place that stood out in her mind. She had to get her information to Arelius, and he would see to her wounds...if she could be saved by the time she reached him.

*************

"You will answer only to me," Arelius explained, and Portia was all ears. "No one will work directly with you. And you won't need to command anyone, because you won't hold rank. This is a sort of unofficial position, but I'm willing to overlook that and still give you information so long as you understand that I will hold you accountable to your vow of service." There was no need to say that, for Portia took these matters as seriously as he did, but she supposed that some formality was in order.

"What kind of work did you have in mind?" she asked.

"The Mythic Dawn is active in the city, even if they're weak, and there are certain nobles that I don't trust. They might wish to take advantage of the empty throne, and the Blades will not allow that. It's bad enough that we have Mehrunes to deal with, without having to watch our backs. You know the secret passages through the city and palace, so I'd like you to be the contact for people who are already my informants. It's as simple as that, and while I might need you for other various tasks, it really depends on what is required and when."

"What's my excuse for being in the palace?" Portia asked. "I'm no longer a guard."

"You're past and skill are known here, so I'd like you to take up the position of training a few aristocratic children in swordsmanship. No lies—they'd be pointless anyway since you'd be fairly easy to investigate. You really did leave active service after an accident, and you're finally returning after a break."

"You've given this a lot of thought," Portia said. "Tell me, did you ever plan to let me go peacefully? This whole oblivion thing is a nice excuse for you to rope me back in, isn't it?"

"I don't really need to answer that," Arelius said with a subtle smile. Perhaps that was where his wife had learned it from. "Do you have an answer for me?"

"I'll do it." And he gave her an approving look that she interpreted as, "That's my girl."

"Then report for your new job tomorrow morning. I'll make sure that you're expected."

"Arelius, come quickly!" Lucretia's shout jerked both Arelius and Portia out of their exchange. The door flew open to reveal his wife standing there in her nightgown, one hand clasping a candle that etched her worried expression into sharp relief. "This way," she ordered, and then she was rushing down the hallway. Portia followed, and her was presence forgotten as Lucretia and Arelius softly but urgently conversed ahead of her. "I don't think she's last long," Lucretia stated.

"Where is she?" Arelius asked. Portia was stunned by the scene that awaited her as the group rushed into the front foyer. There, laying in the doorway and propped against the wall, was a female Dunmer whose tattooed face was tightened in pain. A hand cradled her stomach, where her shirt and ruined leather armor were soaked with blood, and the liquid was beginning to trickle onto the floor.

"Get bandages!" Arelius ordered as he crouched beside the injured woman.

"Poison..." the Dunmer gasped, and Arelius' frown deepened.

"Lucretia," he said. "There is a small blue bottle in the chest beside our bed. Bring it to me." His wife scurried to do his bidding, and Portia watched in bewilderment as the Dunmer's attention turned toward her. There was recognition on the elf's part, and then the woman gasped as a tremor shot through her body.

"What happened?" Arelius asked, knowing that this might be his only shot at understanding the night's events.

"The Mythic Dawn is here, in the city," the elf forced out. "Three of them came on the ship...waiting here for orders...dangerous."

"Enough," Arelius soothed. Lucretia reentered the room, and tender hands angled an antidote into Tamil's mouth. The woman nearly choked on the potion, violently coughing as it went down her throat.

"I'll ready a room," Lucretia said, and she turned to a servant who was nervously waiting at the edge of the room. Portia heard her hostess giving orders, but she was more concerned with the whispered conversation going on between Arelius and the Dunmer. She had never seen the elf before, but she highly suspected that the woman was a Blade. Now she was dying, and the thought of the Mythic Dawn being so close in the city sent Portia's mind down the road of dark contemplation. The Dawn followed Mehrunes, and she didn't like to think that they were here, possibly looking for her. She _had_ to return to her dreams and look for answers.

"Don't..." the elf suddenly spat, body shaking as if in fever, and sweat drops running down the side of her face. "Can't...breathe..."

"Tamil," Arelius urged, holding her by the shoulders.

"Need to stop...protect her..." The woman was clearly delirious, but she was still trying to speak, and feeble hands reached for Arelius' shoulders. "I..."

"It's okay," Arelius soothed, face blank and voice low. "Go to sleep. I'll take care of it." The woman nodded, and her hands dropped, leaving Portia to wonder if she was dead or alive. Judging by the way Arelius gently traced a symbol on her forehead, the woman's chances of survival were slim, and there was something reserved and sad in Arelius' posture that made Portia feel as though she were intruding on a private scene for which she was not meant.

"The room is...oh, is she gone?" Lucretia asked. She stood in the doorway, waiting.

"No," came Arelius' soft response. "But she may be soon. I'll move her myself." He remained crouched, one hand on the woman's hand as if willing her to live. He had worked with her for a long time, and seeing her on the verge of death on such a peaceful night came as an unpleasant surprise. Lucretia wordlessly moved toward him and placed a kiss on the top of his head, one hand stroking his brown hair. She whispered something, and then she seemed to remember Portia's presence, eyes shifting toward the silent figure.

"I'll be in my room," Portia announced. Arelius glanced at her before straightening with the Dunmer cradled in his arms. From outward appearances, it was difficult to tell if he was feeling anything, but Portia knew that he was. "Blade business," she acknowledged. "I know. Goodnight." And she retired to her rooms, wondering if Arelius felt as responsible for the woman's condition as she had once felt for her own comrade's pain.


	7. Chapter 7: Laying Plans

Chapter 6:

She was more familiar with the palace this time around. Its black corridors, angular statues, and red curtains no longer grabbed her attention, for she was preoccupied with warily watching out for dremora. Despite the fact that she was fairly confident that they were unaware of her presence, she still found herself ducking into the shadows whenever they approached, and their hulking frames and red eyes made her breathing hitch. She quickly learned that eavesdropping on them was pointless; yet she found herself trying to do so anyway in an attempt to make her snooping profitable. In truth, she was mostly avoiding the one place where she knew that she should be going: _his_ room.

She came to a large room with a throne, and she wondered if this was where Mehrunes Dagon held audiences. The chair was large, with rubies glittering across its blackened, stone frame, and its owner's symbol carved into the backrest. It was the same symbol that marred her flesh, and in a sick fascination, Portia gravitated toward it. She laid a hand against the stone, feeling the rough lines of the carving beneath her palm. It was cold to the touch, and her fingers traced its outline. Apparently Mehrunes liked to mark what was his, and if his goal had been to never let her forget her transgressions, he'd succeeded.

_But I'm not his_, Portia vehemently thought, and now she was gradually advancing in the direction of his quarters. She soon found herself standing on the threshold of her destination, coldness seeping into her bones from the clammy stone walls. It was night in oblivion, like last time, and so a fire crackled in a golden brazier near Mehrunes' bed at she entered. Perhaps night in her world coincided with night here, and the entire possibility sent chills down her spine. Whereas before she had thought that she was dreaming, now she knew that this was much more—that she was actually somehow moving about within oblivion, seeing what was happening in real time. It was unnerving, much more so than when it had only been an odd dream.

She did not see Mehrunes in the empty room, but she could hear voices beyond the doors on the far side of the room. Taking care to be quiet, she moved toward the table where she had collected Sable and her escape scroll. There were still a myriad of artifacts scattered across it, and she recognized none of them, although she made a detailed mental note of each for later research. Perhaps Gilthan could help her identify them, but she realized that acting upon his knowledge would probably be impossible. She doubted that she could take things from Oblivion in these visions. Most of the time, her hands simply passed through what she meant to touch, only occasionally making contact that felt physical.

Creak.

A door opened, and Portia glanced upward to see Mehrunes marching into the room with fire in his eyes. Before the doors closed, she saw a type of dremora that she did not recognize standing in the doorway. He was larger and more imposing than others that she had seen, but he was quickly lost from view, and her attention went solely to Oblivion's master.

He looked exactly as before, only angrier, as if the news he'd just received was displeasing. His dark mood consumed the room, and Portia could almost feel energy crackling around him. _Such power_, she marveled. She stepped back to let him pass, still extremely uncomfortable in her supposed safety, and he seemed too preoccupied to notice her presence. He flexed his arms and stretched, again showing off his toned limbs and torso, and then he reached for a dagger that sat upon the table. He expertly twirled it between his fingers with agility that Portia would not have thought he possessed. She'd always pictured him artlessly bludgeoning someone with an mace, but as he stared into space, seemingly mindless of what he was doing, she had to correct herself. To think how accurately he could probably throw that thing...

_He can't see you. He can't hear you. He can't hurt you_.

She remained where she was—curious, worried, and a tad self-satisfied with her own courage. He most certainly did _not_ own her, even if he'd plague the back of her mind for eternity. As she watched him, she noticed for the first time that his red skin was decorated with slightly lighter patterns that formed swirls and intricate lines across his body. The dagger continued moving between his hands with practiced ease, and for a moment his eyes closed. A dip of his head drew Portia's attention to the chaos sphere that hung from his ear, and she began to wonder whether it glowed like that all the time. Hers only had the faintest aura, and she didn't think that it'd ever been as vibrant in color as his. Then again, he could channel its power, and she couldn't.

"I know you're there...again," Mehrunes stated with a bit of annoyance. Portia nearly fled from the room, but remembered their previous encounter. She could do this, and if she learned to withstand him, perhaps her nightmares would altogether vanish. "No one comes and goes as they please in this part of the palace, so tell me," he turned to look in her direction. "What are you that even the most powerful dremora cannot sense you?" Portia tried not to make eye contact with him, as if doing so would somehow unveil her.

"You try to deny your own presence," Mehrunes growled. "Very well." And he tossed the dagger toward her. It clattered to the floor at her feet, but she did not touch it as Mehrunes found himself another dagger. He advanced on her, dagger raised, and Portia automatically tensed. He wouldn't attack thin air, would he? Should she...? He dove forward with the dagger, and Portia couldn't help herself. She frantically retrieved the weapon at her feet and lifted it, barely deflecting what was no doubt a weak attack for the daedric prince. Her heart was still pounding as she held the dagger to her chest, and Mehrunes stared curiously at the seemingly floating weapon.

"Goblin's gall," Portia cursed, and she dropped the dagger to the floor.

"You can move things," Mehrunes considered, clearly displeased. His eyes momentarily flickered toward his table of treasure, and Portia could guess what he was thinking. He'd just been stolen from, and yet he hadn't locked the items away. Perhaps this would make him reconsider, and Portia didn't understand why he hadn't taken more precautions before this time. Was he really that arrogant to assume that it couldn't happen again?

"You don't belong here," he stated. "And your trespass will not be overlooked." He retrieved the dagger from the floor and stared at it. "You're too quick to be a spirit. Ghosts are about as fast as ogres, the stupid fetchers," he snorted, then cocked his head to the side, and his mouth parted, showing fangs and making him look even more intimidating. He was curious, Portia realized, because he could do nothing to her, and he didn't know what she was.

"Don't be stupid enough to attack me," he ordered. _Because it would be so effective_, Portia sarcastically thought. Mehrunes could probably snap her in half without much effort. "You seem smarter than that...but you aren't leaving." He stepped back and placed his daggers back on the table. "Perhaps not so intelligent after all." Out of nowhere, he threw a fireball at Portia, nearly giving her a heart attack. The heat as the deadly spell passed through her was uncomfortable, but not damaging, and she was left in a cold sweat as it seared across the wall behind her. Mehrunes growled low in his throat and moved closer with the measured steps of a predator. It was a bold, steady walk—unlike her quick, secretive steps. _Seeing him approach on a battlefield must be a terrifying experience._

"Be warned," he threatened in a matter-of-fact tone. "And I do not repeat myself. If you continue to come here, I _will_ find a way to unearth you." And Portia marveled that he went back to his various tasks as if she didn't exist; although she was willing to bet that he was plotting a way to get at her.

"_Master Dagon_?" a voice called. Of course, Portia only caught 'Dagon'. The rest of the conversation was lost to her since it was in another tongue, and so she mutely listened to the unintelligible speech with interested frustration.

"_Enter_," Mehrunes ordered, and the doors swung inward to reveal the same imposing dremora that Portia had seen before.

"_My lord_," and the dremora fell to his knees in a bow. "_They will be prepared for your arrival in four days._" His head remained lowered as Mehrunes regarded him.

"_Very well. You may go._" The dremora rose and departed without a backward glance, and Portia considered the strange expression settling over Mehrunes' face. She would almost say that the slight tilt to his lips made him look...satisfied, which naturally made her uneasy. Perhaps he had come up with a plan to capture her, but maybe it had been what the dremora said. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction if it was the former, and so decided to leave before events took a turn for the worst. She moved toward the still open doors, and as she passed through them, she chanced a look over her shoulder. Mehrunes stood still, eyes fixed on her.

"We shall see how foolish or wise you are, being," he said. His eyes narrowed, and he turned away, reaching for something on the table. Portia saw that it was the knife, which he again twirled in thought. She didn't know when she would come to Oblivion again, but she ended up returning the next night, and even the next, during which Mehrunes only acknowledged her presence with a quick flick of his eyes, Portia trailing him like a shadow. He was in the throne room, his bedroom, or perhaps on a balcony overlooking the lava flows of his world. He would tell her that she was annoying him, that he did not like her presence. At least he was blunt and surprisingly honest; Portia would give him that much, and while he might growl and try a new spell on her, it never worked.

She found it uncanny that she could sense him on that third night. The chaos sphere would glow hotly against her skin, and she would intuitively know whether he was giving audiences or wandering in a certain part of the palace. Lesser daedra scattered in fear before him; dremora bowed and uttered respectful phrases, but she stuck to nearby shadows, waiting for...well, she was working on that. If nothing else, she was becoming bolder and stronger as she balanced an act of wary distance and close observation—like she'd once done in her own world, but there _was_ a point to her actions. She did not go to Oblivion or tolerate Mehrunes' often suffocating personality for her health or enjoyment. The man downright startled her when he unexpectedly focused on her, and one more unexpected spell might send her over the edge of paranoia.

What she was trying to accomplish was to garner information from him, but it wasn't working. Sometimes he'd be looking at maps, and Portia recognized locations, but never the language being used to discuss them. Once, she'd climbed a chair and looked directly over his shoulder to get a better view, and on the first night where he'd barely acknowledged her, she'd even reached out to touch his earring. Mehrunes had instantly whipped around to face her with raging eyes that would have scared the fur off of a Khajit. If she'd been physical, no doubt he would have killed her then and there, and she'd fled, not knowing when she'd return. Now it was morning again, and as she awoke, she realized that if she was going to gain anything from her trips into Oblivion, she'd need to understand a new language. It was fortunate that her new job granted her access to the palace libraries, and Gilthan thought that her idea was brilliant.

Portia smiled as she readied herself for another day of schooling. With her dreams mostly under control, and with her new position, she felt as if her life was in order for the first time since her departure from the Blades. She was even enjoying sneaking around again since she was responsible only for herself. She moved alone through hidden corridors to collect information for Arelius, and she was pleased that he approved of her work. He had yet to ask her for special assistance, and for that she was grateful. She was busy enough as it was.

***************

"How is she doing?" Tamil asked. She was laying in one of Arelius' guest chambers, and he sat in a chair beside her reclining form. Her wounds were healing, but the poison was still affecting her with harsh fever. She'd been confined to bed since arriving, bloody and half-dead, on his doorstep three days ago. Arelius visited her every day when he returned from work, and her lack of progress was a matter of personal worry and frustration for him.

"She's as good as she used to be," he stated in reference to Portia.

"Is she still holding back? Only acting if given direct orders?" A good Blade saw opportunities and took the initiative, but she doubted that Portia was comfortable enough with her new position to be doing that at this stage.

"Actually," Arelius smiled, "She just questioned several beggars the other day and found a lead on your missing threesome."

"Thank Vivec, because we need her. If she's ready, you could..."

"No," Arelius bluntly anticipated. "She's too valuable not to use, but I can't have her getting too close to the Dawn. If she draws attention to herself, she could cause disaster, and it would be on our heads. Protecting the artifact is our first and foremost job until the mages decide how to handle it." Tamil nodded in annoyance and eased back further into her stack of pillows.

"And are they making any progress?"

"They're displeased that she is even allowed to leave this house," Arelius smiled. "They don't understand that if she is to know nothing, I can't be overly restrictive or she'll get suspicious. Giving her the job will at least keep her in the city."

"And keep her under your guidance," Tamil grinned. "You're grooming the pretty, little Blade for a future position, aren't you?" Arelius nodded. There was no reason to deny it. He'd never wanted to see Portia go elsewhere with her talent, and given time, she would be ready to lead others again. He was sure of it, and if not, he'd push her in that direction. "So what else are the mages doing, sir? And don't spare any details. Being confined to this room is driving me crazy, and it's a waste of precious time." Arelius smiled ruefully and leaned forward to rest his hands on his knees.

"They're researching the matter, and that's all they would say. Open communication would be preferable, but I'm telling them as little as they tell us. They have no idea that Portia's back in service, and I want to keep it that way. No one except us will know—for her own safety. If the monk hadn't ordered us to cooperate with them, I'd as soon put the chaos sphere in our own possession for safe-keeping, but we have our directives."

"Telling her about the artifact might help matters," Tamil stated. "I would want to know."

"It's not about what we want," Arelius calmly reminded her.

"Of course not, sir, but you must admit that it's tempting." He thought about it before standing to depart.

"Portia always was one to take on her own problems. I fear that if she were to know, she'd try to do something about it without my consent. I'd rather bide my time than risk exposing her, even if she is one of the sneakiest Blades that I've ever seen."

"Sneakier than me?" Tamil teased.

"No, but you weren't originally a Blade either." His reference to the woman's dark past had no effect on either, for they'd long grown comfortable with her open secrets. "And our directives are for silence, operative," Arelius stressed. "Don't say a word to Portia about what we've discussed."

"Yes, sir," Tamil conceded, but unsure if what they were doing was for the best or not. "If I don't recover soon, you might consider expanding her role in our operation. From what you've said, I'd trust her to take over my job."

"Get some rest," Arelius ordered. "If the need arises, I'll use my own discretion."

"As always. Good day, sir."


	8. Chapter 8: Hearts and Blood

GO BACK and read the NOTE

Chapter 7

"Casperian, be careful not to throw yourself off balance!" Portia called from the sidelines of the training room. The large, grassy yard was enclosed by tall, white walls and a stone walkway. It was part of the palace grounds, and had been used by upcoming noblemen for decades. Portia had never openly roamed these grounds before or cared about doing so, but she found that being able to stroll as she pleased with her new title of swordswoman was pleasant. She currently had five pupils, and she was conditioning them as protectors for future families. Fighting was an expected skill for these young men, and on the whole, she enjoyed teaching them. They treated her with respect, even if some of their fathers looked down on a female teaching their sons to fight.

"Parry left!" she called. Too late. The kid got a crack across the head with a wooden sword. "No. Try again, and do it the way that I showed you." The practice continued for another hour before she dismissed them and packed up the training gear. Locking it inside of a storage room off of the yard, she moved toward her favorite part of the palace: the library loft. It was a small and seldom-used sitting room in a corner of the library, and to reach it, one had to climb a narrow flight of stairs. In such a place, she was left alone to research Oblivion and its lord without threat of interruption. Gilthan was helping her in that respect, for he had already sent a person by Arelius' house to drop off a book on ancient languages. He thought that her plan to spy on Mehrunes was brilliant, but also risky. He didn't like that she was feeling stronger vibes from Oblivion, and not just when she was sleeping.

Portia thought back to her morning routine, and she too wondered whether she was perhaps pushing the limits of what she should do. She had been walking to the palace earlier today when she had heard the voice, disembodied and faintly recognizable. Then the burning started, from a pinprick of energy to a roaring inferno. It hadn't precisely hurt, but it had made her body throb, the power shooting through her so quickly that she stumbled and nearly fell from the overpowering force. Never had she felt such strength, and then her vision flashed red. She was looking at Mehrunes' dark palace, and then him, and then everything went black before someone on the street finally snapped her to her senses by asking if she was okay. It was a wonder that she wasn't a crispy piece of flesh, and being cautious by nature, not knowing what the artifact had been doing gnawed at her mind

Akatosh guard her, but she hadn't told Gilthan about that yet, and the elf was already worried. He didn't like that the chaos sphere sometimes made her feel warm and sleepy, as if beckoning her to Oblivion, and here she was, getting the rush of a lifetime on a street in broad daylight. She didn't like it either, but her course was set, and she was both prepared and dreading a worsening of her condition. If the mages took much longer, she couldn't imagine what she'd be experiencing; although, she had yet to suffer physical harm. What was happening now was far less painful than what had transpired when she'd been captured in Oblivion, and so she would use another draught tonight, even if she was nervous. Her last encounter with Mehrunes had given her doubts about seeing him again. If looks could kill...but she _had_ to do this.

_Here it is_.

Portia sat down in her favorite, padded chair and cracked open the large tome that she'd hidden beneath it. The ancient runes inside no longer appeared as unintelligible squiggles, but she was still a long way from easily reading them. She was searching for the page that she'd left off on when her hip gave a sharp stab of pain. She didn't need to look to know that the chaos sphere was glowing, for this had started yesterday—a pulling sensation and an internal burning that triggered pain in her hip. Gilthan warned that it might be an unavoidable effect of the sphere's presence, but Portia had a feeling that it was more, for when the warmth began to spread, she could feel Mehrunes' mood. Sometimes she intuitively knew that he was angry, and sometimes he simply seemed to be channeling power. The draw was almost unstoppable either way, but it never lasted long. She'd be left in a cold sweat but otherwise whole, and she often found her side bleeding in the aftermath.

"Damn body," Portia said to herself, forcing herself to focus on the page before her. Her eyes scanned the symbols, and she stifled a yawn. She had forgotten how much energy it took to both run Blade business late in the night and rise early for a regular job. Thank the gods that Arelius didn't ask her to work every night, but if he did, she would do it. She had sworn to serve him as she had before, and she treated oaths with the same severity that he did. As a guard, she had taken them to heart, and largely because she had lost everything and was free to fully dedicate herself.

Sitting in the library, she thought back to how she had lost her parents and been kicked off of their former property as a teenager. Afterwards, she'd been searching for something to make her life less empty and groundless, for with no home and no one to take her in, she'd been miserable. Service to the empire had promised to change that, and as she thought about her past decision, she realized that if she'd never accidently killed that man, she probably would have turned into a younger version of her mentor. Her entire identity had been centered on her occupation at that point in her life, and she supposed that without it, she really had lost part of herself—a part that she hadn't been able to find outside of her Blade role. Funny, how it had taken Oblivion and the most painful and dangerous event of her life to make her realize that.

Portia yawned again, and her eyes briefly drifted shut. She had been up all night and teaching all morning. Perhaps a nap would be a good idea, but what if someone saw what she was reading? She didn't want anyone to know, especially when she and Gilthan had been so careful thus far. And that mage, what was his name? Traven—yes, him. He was watching Gilthan so closely that Portia only contacted the elf by short messages passed along by a servant. The cleaners tended to be overlooked by the Arcane University. Well then, it was settled: no sleeping.

Portia gathered her belongings and headed straight for Arelius' home where she could study in relative privacy.

**************

The bell rang a second time, and Gilthan rolled his eyes. This customer needed to learn some patience, and that thought was reaffirmed as he ran eyes over the male Imperial. The man breathed blue blood and the attitude that accompanied it, but the high elf had long suspected that it was mostly for show. Surely these people couldn't maintain such a facade in the confines of their own homes.

"This shop is open, isn't it?" the man sarcastically asked. Then again, maybe he was just a jerk. Gilthan was used to their sort, for some of the mages were absolute snobs, and while he mostly brushed it off, he sometimes couldn't help making a comment or two. After all, his cheerful disposition allowed him to get away with statements that would usually offend or anger other people. Even when he was caught breaking the rules, he tended to laugh it off in such a way that his superiors merely shook their heads in exasperation. There were advantages to being as free spirited as he was.

"I believe that the owner is fetching me some stinkhorn caps," Gilthan told the Imperial. Why did his boss need the fungus? He didn't really know, and he didn't particularly care. The details of the project always eventually made their rounds, and in the meantime, it was a lovely day for a walk through the city. Plus, the alchemy shop that he now stood in smelled heavenly—like research, rare ingredients, and careful preparations, all of which he respectfully adored.

"I ordered ahead for my supplies," the Imperial continued. _Well aren't you special_, Gilthan smiled to himself. Then it occurred to him that it was odd that this man should be doing his own shopping. Perhaps the Imperial wasn't as high born as he acted...? Gilthan looked the man over again and noticed the slightly worn edges of his doublet and the scuffed toes of his boots. This man was definitely out and about on a regular basis, and so he couldn't be at the top of the class ladder. There were plenty of Imperial families that were prestigious but whose old money had dried up, and he figured that this might be one of them. Then again, perhaps the man was simply a bit different from his social comrades, for Gilthan knew of several very rich noblemen and women who were active in everyday life just for the hell of it. He liked those sorts.

"I'm coming!" the annoyed alchemist shouted from the back room when the Imperial rang the bell for a fourth time. An old, wrinkled Altmer emerged from a nearby doorway with a huff of indignation. She was stooped with age, and her dark eyes flashed in anger when she saw the Imperial. Gilthan could only imagine her thoughts, for here she was, a notable professional and easily twice as old as this impatient customer, and the Imperial had the nerve to completely disregard respect. He stood there with his sleek black hair, brown eyes, and fine if worn clothing, and stared at his elder like she was there to serve him. Coming from Summerset Isle, the action irked Gilthan, who had been taught to respect older Altmer, which was wise since they were often dangerously potent with magic.

"Mr. Pantrov," the storekeeper scowled. "You will kindly wait your turn like every other customer in my shop." Gilthan nearly choked to prevent himself from laughing at the Imperial's bored expression. The arrogant ones had a tendency to do that: look indifferent when they realized that they couldn't get their way. Now, Gilthan didn't normally associate with people like that, but he had it on good report from other mages that some noblemen had perfected boredom to such an extent that you could commit suicide in front of them and they'd barely bat an eyelash. Few as those Imperials were, he did not doubt their existence, and that fact that they so closely resembled a high elf when they cast such expressions amused him. This Imperial would have even been able to give his Altmer father a run for his money.

"Ah, Gilthan," the alchemist greeted when she saw him. "I was expecting you. Here you are," and she handed him a bag of stinkhorn caps. "I'll charge your boss for it, but I'm afraid that he has a rather long list of unpaid for goods. You'd best remind him that I'm starting to charge interest." She gave him a meaningful look, and Gilthan grinned.

"I'll tell him, but he's not likely to listen to this humble messenger." The Imperial wasn't even looking at them, although Gilthan sensed his attention. He had an inkling that this man was sneaky, and he hadn't even been in the same room with him for more than ten minutes. "I'm going to look at your mushrooms over here," Gilthan told the shopkeeper. "Maybe you'd best take care of fancy pants," he added in a softer tone, but not so soft that the Imperial would miss the comment. He then turned his back on the scene and pretended not be eavesdropping.

"Here's your daedra heart," the shopkeeper was saying. Daedra heart? That was an interesting need. Gilthan didn't recognize the Imperial, and he knew every skilled alchemist in the city by name and face, so why would this man need an ingredient usually reserved for upper level potions? Now his interest was peaked. Coins exchanged hands, and he listened for the Imperial to leave before turning around.

"Who was that?" Gilthan asked, and the old woman placed hands on her hips.

"Horace Pantrov," she answered. "He's a real class act."

"I wouldn't have guessed," Gilthan said, face turning more serious than normal. "Why did he need a daedra heart?" If an amateur tried using the recipes that called for that ingredient, it could spell extreme pain and trouble when a mistake was made. He'd once seen a friend's face burned off by an exploding potion, and so he didn't take the matter as whimsically as he might have.

"You'd have to ask him, but good luck. The man is only a minor noble, but he likes to lord it over us commoners on his bad days. He's polite and even winning if he feels like putting forth the effort, but..."

"He obviously wasn't in the mood today?" Gilthan guessed.

"Clearly. It's a shame too, but I suppose that a diplomat can't keep up the act all the time. I hear that he's less condescending and demanding with his fellow aristocrats, but what can you expect? He's not the big fish in the pond when he's at the palace. Everyone's got a place, but get him around a few beggars, and it's a massacre. He's verbally ripped apart Simplicia the Slow to the point where she cries. Makes me want to throw a stink potion at him some days, but then he'll turn on that Imperial charm, and he's got it; trust me. Half the time I hate him, and half the time I forget he's a prick."

"Hmmm," Gilthan mused. "I suppose he acts differently for the audience; although _I _am fairly consistent."

"No, you're inconsistent to the point where it becomes consistency."

"That makes sense...in a strange way," he mused. "I must be going now, but I _will_ keep my promise to sing for you one day."

"Oh, get out of here. I've had enough of you for the day. You're horribly talkative for an Altmer!"

"Your wish is my command," and Gilthan left with a chuckle. Daedra heart...Well, if the man blew himself up, it might at least impart some humility. He whistled as he moved along, thinking of returning to work and his current experiment. He might have found the Imperial interesting, but he did not dwell on the matter as he walked, and so did not see the man moving in the opposite direction of himself. If anyone had been looking, they might have noticed that Horace Pantrov was testier than usual, and that had everything to do with the heart clutched in his hand...

**************

He did not appreciate these Mythic Dawn members having him run their errands, but it was rather inevitable since they could not risk being seen, and they needed this heart for some kind of ritual. Horace strongly believed that it had something to do with Mehrunes Dagon's arrival, but they only told him that he would know in a few days. He wasn't surprised by their curtness, for they were much higher in Dawn rank than himself, but he had expected _some_ appreciation for allowing them access to his stores. They were a damned nuisance, and yet part of him was impressed with their leader: Ruined Cloak.

Don't ask him what kind of a symbolic name that was, but the man was the same enigma who'd visited him before, and just as cooly taunting. Still, the bastard had earned Horace's grudging respect by proving himself cunning, for he was the key, onsite ringleader in executing the emperor, and, as it turned out, the first one to suggest that Horace be admitted into the Mythic Dawn. Horace handled the man well enough, and he gave all three visitors the proper formalities, but he didn't have to like it. His master ordered it, and serving his master had always been his priority...well, most of time. When Dagon grew weaker in this plane, he tended to shift his attentions elsewhere. He wasn't fickle; he was pragmatic, and it worked well for him.

In truth, he had his doubts about whether Dagon would be successful in his bid for power, but it didn't matter. He played his part well but kept it hidden, ensuring that he'd come out unscathed no matter who won. He might sometimes seem like a mere pawn, and he might boss someone around only to bow to someone else within a span of minutes, but he knew what he was doing. He stood to the side and watched other chess pieces moving, even Ruined Cloak, and his mind was always turning, judging his next step. It really wasn't much different from what he'd been doing his entire life, whether going to Skyrim to broker deals or down to Black Marsh to assure the lizards that no more land would be taken. The difference was that he was usually the one that earned respect or at least the camaraderie of his fellow Imperials, but the Mythic Dawn ignored such distinctions. To them, he was only a nobleman who might earn a piece of the pie.

He entered his house and thought about grabbing some wine, but resisted the urge. He was attending a dinner later tonight, and he didn't need to drink so much, even if he felt driven to it. Instead, he moved down to his basement and through a heavy trapdoor. He hated the filth, and more than that, he hated getting it on himself, but he would survive. He descended a ladder into a stone room sealed off from the rest of the sewers, and found himself standing in the faint light of a fire that produced no smoke. As he had learned, Ruined Cloak was an accomplished mage.

"Here's your heart," Horace stated, holding out the bag for one of the cloaked figures to take. Their robes appeared blood red in the firelight, and shadowy faces turned toward him in acknowledgment.

"Were there any difficulties?" the tallest figure asked, and Horace knew that it was Ruined Cloak. The man carried such an Argonian name, yet his voice didn't sound like it hailed from Black Marsh.

"None at all," Horace offhandedly replied. "Is there anything else that you require for this ritual? I've already sent a servant for the bonemeal." That at least could be handled by a regular worker. The daedra heart had been too delicate an issue to delegate in such a manner, for it would have raised questions since he was no alchemist. The bonemeal, on the other hand, was readily available from certain poor peddlers who sold the ashes of the freshly buried as good luck charms against disease. Silly belief, but useful at the moment.

"Our lord will be pleased," one of the figures stated.

"One can hope," Horace commented before giving a curt bow of his head. "I shall see you at some later time. Your food will be left in the usual place." He happily turned to go, not hearing the whispered conversation at his back. They sounded excited about something, but what, Horace didn't care. He was far too occupied with wondering if his accommodations would suite the lord of Oblivion. He had a lot to live up to in the next few days.


	9. Chapter 9: Uneasy Familiarity

Chapter 8:

Portia didn't even notice when she slipped into Oblivion. One moment she was studying her book, and the next, she was standing in Mehrunes' audience chamber. She blinked twice, taking in the sight of the black throne, before she realized what had happened. Obviously, she had been more tired than she'd given herself credit for, but really, she hadn't expected to arrive in Oblivion during a nap. There was no sleeping draught involved in this, yet here she was.

The chaos sphere was glowing, and she automatically turned toward a small archway to the right of the throne. She instinctually knew that he was there, her connection to Oblivion and the other sphere beckoning her in that direction. There was a slight stinging in her hip, but nothing crippling as she walked closer to the doorway, one hand reaching out to glide across the stone walls. She wanted to be brave, but there was a hesitancy in her step that would never leave her. This world was simply too dangerous for a human, and lest she forget that she was an intruder here, she recalled her cell and how her blood had seeped across its length.

_Here goes nothing._

Portia found herself on the same balcony where she had seen Mehrunes once before, and it was her first time seeing Oblivion in daylight. The land's craggy cliffs rose in the distance, ribbons of lava trailing down their sides and forming pools about their bases, and the sky swirled in an odd kaleidoscope of purples and red. The main difference between day and night was the absence of stars, and the sky's shades were a bit lighter now, if not different in color. It was hotter too, Portia realized, and the heat remained apparent even though the stones of the palace were cool.

The palace itself stood on a flattened ledge jutting out from the side of a mountain, which Portia had not realized for some time. She had formerly assumed that it stood on an elevated plain, but the palace actually molded into the cliff's face, its rooms burrowing deep into the mountain. She could not imagine how large the mountain actually was if she had thought its ledge a plain, and as she looked upward, she saw other balconies and open passageways cut into the stone. The palace was more like a city given its massive size.

Suddenly feeling conspicuous, Portia grounded her attention to realize that Mehrunes was staring at her. He stood with two of his arms braced against the railing and the other two folded behind his back. He wore a calculating expression, and she took several steps backward to widen the distance between them. She did not like when he was obviously thinking about her.

"An odd time for you to be here," the prince stated in his gruff manner. Portia wondered if he would ever be able to hear her, but then again, she wouldn't want to test that possibility. So she remained silent, knowing that if he heard her, she'd never come back—the importance of spying or not. Every day, she was reminded of his wrath, and she knew from her readings that Mehrunes Dagon was vindictive. He'd once hunted a man for twenty years after the adventurer had defiled one of his statues at a shrine. How much worse would it be for her, having stolen from him?

"I have work to be done," Mehrunes told her. "Come along if you will, being, but there is nothing here for you to gain." He seemed insistent that she know he considered her nothing but a tolerated annoyance, and she was fine with that. Part of her was morbidly curious to know what he would do if he _could_ harm her. She was sure that he would not be so accepting of her in such a case, but even now, she did not understand why he was calm. From her knowledge, he should be ceaselessly trying to capture or destroy her for invading his quarters, but he didn't.

She credited his apparent indifference on his unappreciated ability to launch surprise attacks, which would mean that his calm was a facade. Still, perhaps the prince brushed her aside since he was arrogant enough to consider her harmless. Just the way that he walked seemed to announce that he was untouchable, and then there was the way that he effortlessly commanded those around him. Part of it was his sheer power, for when he was displeased, it was enough to make the strongest dremora nervous, but beyond that, Mehrunes simply had their loyalty. From what Portia had seen, he was an expert at delegating tasks and enforcing order on his minions and world, and for that, she suspected that he was both respected and feared.

The more she watched, the more she learned. There were things here that no book ever said or hinted at.

"Valkynaz Kalket," Mehrunes called as they stepped back into the audience chamber. He stopped so suddenly that Portia didn't immediately follow suite, and her body inevitably moved forward against his, or that's what would have happened if she were physical. Instead, she was aware of touching him, but not being stopped by his solid form. Her ghostly presence rubbed across his, and for a moment, it looked to her as though her hand had gone inside of him. The sensation was downright creepy, and as she retracted her limb, she felt the earring flare with energy against her skin. Mehrunes must have also felt the spark, for he jerked his head around to glare at her.

_Goblin's Gall!_

Portia slipped away from the prince, and found herself crouching near the throne and peering out from around it. Mehrunes was still looking in her direction, but finally turned his attention to the dremora that had joined them. This daedra was different, for he wore the same black and red armor of his compatriots, but his head was uncovered, revealing ashen skin, two small horns on his forehead, and purple hair that was swept backward over his scalp. Portia now knew that he was a Valkynaz, one of the highest ranking dremora, but that was only a recent discovery.

"_My Lord_," the dremora greeted with a bow, and Portia was thrilled that she understood what he had said. "_I have acquired suitable replacements_." Now she frowned, having only caught the word for 'replacements'. "_And the fool mage has been dealt with_."

_"Very good," _Mehrunes nodded_. "Where is the clothing?" _

_"In your room, my lord. Do you require anything else?"_

_"No, but have the mage's head put on a stake at the front gates." _

_"As you wish." _Portia, having realized that she would not catch the gist of the conversation, had turned her attention to the throne. With her basic knowledge, she was deciphering the text running along the back of the chair, and she grimly frowned every few seconds when she had to stop and think about the word that she was working on. She heard the dremora leaving, and some small shift inside her mind warned that Mehrunes was getting closer, but she only had one more line to go.

"Do you sense anyone else in this room, Kalket?" the prince asked, switching to common tongue as the dremora neared the room's exit.

"No, my lord," and the dremora sounded puzzled. "Should I?"

"No. You may go." He was getting closer, so close that Portia could almost feel his power shimmering across her skin. It washed over her in waves that she was unsure would be present if she weren't wearing the chaos sphere.

"Don't even think about sitting on it," Mehrunes growled at her as she reached out and touched the engraved text before her. He was standing with one elbow resting against the throne, and his eyes were gleaming red in warning. She could only imagine how he would react if she defied him, and so she quickly retracted her hand, but not without snorting in annoyance at his condescending tone.

"That's better," he stated. "Keep your hands to yourself." Portia froze, wondering how he knew that her hand had been running over the stone. Could he detect her precise movements rather than just her general location? She didn't like that possibility one bit. "You're curious," Mehrunes continued. "Always touching and stopping to read things. It's uncommon for anyone outside of the Dunmer to understand our alphabet."

He reached out a hand toward her, and Portia stepped backward, which made Mehrunes smile, but it wasn't a comforting expression. It looked predatory with the way that his fangs showed, and his eyes gleamed in wicked delight.

"So you're smart enough to fear me," he mused. "Good. You should be." He continued moving toward the door, and Portia followed at a distance, wrongly assuming that he was done with her for the day. She should have been paying closer attention to the way that his shoulders suddenly tensed, for without warning, he whipped around and spoke a few harsh words in his own tongue. The effect was almost immediate, for Portia found herself feeling nauseated, and her lungs began working for air.

_Portia..._

Someone was calling her name, but it sounded as if the word was spoken from across an ocean. The sound wavered in the air, repeating itself, and Portia thought that perhaps it was Lucretia. It sounded like her, but that made no sense, and Portia was too busy stumbling away from Mehrunes to think about it. Her stomach turned, and she felt herself being tugged downward. Why that should be so, she didn't know, but she fought it. She fought with every ounce of willpower in her body, and as Mehrunes darkly chuckled, she glared. If this was his idea of comic relief, he was one sick bastard.

"Not so immune to that one, are you?" he questioned. "Some spells aren't bound by physical targets. You should have known that I'd find a way to get at you." One finger reached for her, and Portia found herself increasingly frustrated. He _would not_ treat her like some weakling to toss around—not again, even if that's exactly what she was. She could imagine his fingernail cutting into her skin, and his hateful eyes burning into her vision. The triumph that she saw in him now was worse and equally effective at making her want to injure him.

"No!" she spat, reaching out and knocking his hand aside. Mehrunes appeared shocked at the force that blocked his touch, and Portia could now feel her skin burning. His earring was glowing, and hers was glowing, and a force cracked between them so strongly that both felt it. Portia was left breathless from the effort as she stood there, looking at her hand and then Mehrunes'. She had succeeded in moving him with nothing but her bare hands, and there he was, eyeing her like the furious deity that he was.

"Where did you get such power?" he demanded. _I don't know_. Portia watched his face do the familiar morphing from anger to thought, and something told her that he sensed her confusion. "You don't know," Mehrunes said almost to himself, confirming her suspicions.

_Portia? _

Not that voice again. Portia felt like she had enough to think about at the moment without a disembodied speaker adding to her confusion. Tentatively, Mehrunes lifted a hand, but did not move it toward Portia. He simply held it out in front of his chest, half-way extended, and stared at her with the most difficult of expressions to read.

"Would you dare touch a prince?" he asked her. "You have permission this once." Portia found herself reaching out, the earring still warming her body as her fingertips drew closer to his. Her pointer finger met red flesh, and it didn't pass through him as it normally would have. It remained pressed against the hard, solid surface of his hand, causing her to recoil as quickly as she'd reached out. This revelation jolted her, and she decided that she was going to leave right now. The voice was getting more insistent; she was stunned, and Mehrunes did the unexpected by chuckling. The sound was rich and rumbled up from the depths of his broad chest, filling Portia's ears and reminding her of the low beginnings of an earthquake.

"How very brave of you!" he said, and he actually sounded approving. "But Oblivion eventually makes its visitors its own. Time ticks, being. How long before the power of my world pulls you in too deeply to escape?" The words hit Portia with chilling power as she left her dream. Someone was shaking her, and she went toward that force, wanting to escape Mehrunes' reach. She had never meant to allow her ties to Oblivion to take her so precariously close to the real thing, but here it was.

Elsewhere, within the walls of the Arcane University, several mages were congregating for a meeting. They had never felt a power surge such as the one that had momentarily shot through the air around the city, and they had a very bad feeling about its source.

*****************

"I'm awake," Portia announced. She was sitting in the same chair that she'd been reading in, and the book was still propped open on her lap. Lucretia was standing beside her, one hand on Portia's shoulder, and eyes staring curiously at the book's content. Damn, but Portia had slipped up this time. She closed the book with as much reserve as possible, and smiled up at the other woman. The two had been talking more recently, and Portia found that having another woman around was desirable. After all, she was overwhelmingly surrounded by men both in the Blades and at the palace training grounds.

"Are you alright?" Lucretia asked. "I could not wake you, and you were muttering in your sleep."

"I'm fine," Portia assured, but she herself didn't believe it.

"I'm glad to hear it," Lucretia smiled, and stepped away. They were in Portia's rooms, and the doors to the chamber were still open. "You will forgive my intrusion, but a maid came up to clean and said that you appeared to be in some sort of pain."

"It was just another nightmare," Portia dismissed, although inside she was still reeling from the new physical parameters that were forming in Oblivion. There was no telling how much stronger her presence would become if she continued to go there. That was an insurmountable problem now that she no longer knew if she could prevent her visits to the darker plane, for she hadn't even taken a draught to get stuck there this time.

"I can have tea or refreshments sent up for you," Lucretia offered. "If you are not feeling well, there is no need to trouble getting it yourself." Portia smiled at Lucretia's obvious amusement. The woman found it funny that Portia often fetched and did things for herself rather than letting the household staff handle mundane tasks. Being highborn, Lucretia probably didn't know what it was like to do everyday tasks for herself, but that was fine with Portia. The woman was privileged, and why not continue in a comfortable life? It simply wasn't for Portia.

"Thank you for waking me," Portia gratefully motioned, and she meant it.

"You're welcome, and how is your new job going?"

"Which one?" Portia snorted, and watched Lucretia give her a subtle nod of the head. So the wife did know about her guest's dual existence.

"Both," Lucretia replied. "I myself will be at the palace for the next few days. One of the countesses is visiting, and we are old friends, so if you require any assistance, I will be available." Portia nodded in thanks and mentally congratulated herself for having rightly assumed how useful Lucretia was as a friend.

"Thank you for the offer," she said. "The work is fine, although I have a feeling that Arelius has something up his sleeve. And you," she smiled goodheartedly, "are probably working as his accomplice."

"I am only a humble wife," the other woman said. "I am bound to give him my assistance." Portia made a snort of disbelief, and Lucretia lightly laughed in response. "I am pleased to see that your ordeals have not crippled your sense of humor, Portia. It makes things easier, doesn't it?"

"Hell yes." Lucretia raised her eyebrows at the woman's word choice, and it was Portia's turn to laugh. Her comment definitely wasn't language befitting the chambers of polite society, but she didn't particularly care. In this manor, she had no role other than herself. It was the only place that she allowed herself to be so relaxed, except maybe when she was with Gilthan.

"Arelius left this for you," Lucretia informed her, and passed a sealed letter to the seated woman. "It goes with the present on your bed." So Arelius was back to his traditional way of dealing with Portia—back to being the distant figure that always showed up at the perfect moment, and always made the job feel personal without getting too close to anyone.

"I _knew_ that you were plotting with him," Portia teased Lucretia as she accepted the letter and noted the large box sitting on her mattress. She cracked the seal and frowned as she scanned the letter's contents. "Do you know what it says?" she asked.

"No, and it is meant for your eyes only," Lucretia stated. Contrary to popular belief, there were many secrets between her and her husband, because that's how the Blades operated. She excused herself and left Portia to deal with the latest assignment, which Portia was digesting with interest. A body of a beggar had been found in the Market District, and the killing was unusual in that the person had been dispatched with a poisoned dagger. Apparently the poison was rare and expensive, and Arelius wanted Portia to investigate and find out what had happened. He suspected that it might have something to do with the secret attackers at the harbor, for the poison in both incidents was the same, and that could mean a lead on the Mythic Dawn.

Portia burnt the letter and opened the box that Arelius had left her. She paled when the lid came off to reveal a beautifully polished sword that bore the Imperial Legion's dragon carved into the blade directly beneath the hilt. The pommel was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship that was wrapped in a red, leather grip, and the blade itself was a little longer than her arm. She recognized the sword alright, for it was that Arelius had given her upon her first promotion in the Blades, and she could still imagine innocent blood flowing down its length.

_He_ had died on this sword.

Why the hell would Arelius give this back to her? She had forsaken it that night, and she hadn't touched it since. It held too many painful associations, but here it was, as sharp and artfully designed as the day she'd first received it, and how she had loved its weight strapped to her hip! Anger bubbled in her chest when she realized what Arelius was trying to force on her, but she quickly brushed it aside. She would reclaim the sword alright, and she'd wear its bloodstain as a part of her history, but it wasn't just for him. True, she knew that refusing the gift would make her look weak in his eyes, but it wasn't his will that made her fasten the scabbard around her waist.

Her body easily and naturally accommodated the addition weight and feel of the sword at her side, and she laid a hand on the metalwork with a blank expression. If Mehrunes couldn't break her, neither would the ghost of a man, but he was there, standing in the back of her mind, watching her with wide and pained eyes. She knew that it would never go away, but since that was the case, and since she had wronged that man, she had no right to ignore what had happened. That had been what she'd been resorting to: running from her actions, and that was unacceptable, as Arelius had pointed out. She already had one wound to remind her of what chased her, so why not a tool that would do the same? It was a painful decision to take up that sword, but she realized that since she'd gone to Oblivion, her life had been building up to this moment. The chance to run was gone.

Portia strode out of the room with a renewed burden that somehow felt lighter than it should. It almost seemed silly to be scared of a sword when a daedric prince was after her, and that's what she told herself as she went looking for her most prized beggars—the ones that always knew what happened on backstreets. She pondered at the coincidence that her sword belt wound directly over her eternal wound, making it gently ache as if to rub her faults in her face. _That_ was heavier than the blade, but she bore both of symbols of suffering with a determination that had been set upon her by powers outside of her control. It was exactly what Arelius wanted, but Portia would never admit that carrying the sword had anything to do with him...or Mehrunes for that matter.


	10. Chapter 10: Investigating Murder

Chapter 9:

"Give this to my love," Portia said with a silly smile. The maid wiped hands on her apron and giggled along with her, Portia thanking the gods that this woman was easily manipulated. She held out a note to the maid, who was old enough to be her mother, and genuinely smiled at the lady's delight. Apparently sneaking around beneath her employer's nose made the woman's day.

"Another note," the maid said. "I've always said that those mages need to relax their rules and let people visit more often. This will do the young man good."

"Yes," Portia lied. "That grumpy boss of his is forever running him into the ground. I haven't seen him in days!" The maid clucked her tongue in disapproval, and shook her head.

"It's sad," she agreed. "But I'll slip this into his room, and no one will know the difference. I've done this for many young lovers, you know...and some not that young too." Portia sent the maid on her way with the delicate letter, praying that nothing was intercepted, for the letter detailed her latest revelation about her presence Oblivion, and she wanted Gilthan's opinion on it. She wished that she could also have Arelius' opinion, for she was sure that the man would be interested in her spying plan, but he hadn't told her anything about the chaos spheres— even after he'd spoken with the mages. She wanted to know if his silence was because the mages were keeping everyone uninformed, or if it was because he was consenting to their directives. There would be no easy way to uncover the truth behind that, and anything that she told him, he might report to the university for her own good.

_You could ask him to keep it confidential_.

Yes, if she could get him to swear that he'd remain silent, he wouldn't break that trust. That was the type of man that he was, but when duty called, he might bend the rules close to breaking. Therein lay the major problem in trying to figure out how best to approach him, and she did need to eventually speak with him about her dreams. Spying was pointless if there was no one to report to.

She made her way to the small courtyard where the dead beggar had been found, and although the body had been removed, small patches of red remained on the grass. There was also a stain on a nearby bedroll that was pushed up against the wall in one corner of the enclosed area. It was actually a pretty spot with its flowering bushes and small trees, but Portia knew that no one would be returning here for some time. She was incredibly surprised that someone seemed to have come and grabbed the beggar's belongings from beside the bedroll, but poverty could drive the poor beyond their usual skittish nature. Certainly, the mysterious attacker hadn't stolen anything, for it wasn't mentioned in the report.

Portia recalled the details of her briefing, and if anything was certain, it was that this case would not be easy. No one questioned had seen the attacker, and there wasn't even a report of disturbance from that night. Usually someone reported hearing a struggle or scream, but this had been a silent killing, and poison was the only evidence of who might have been responsible. In many ways, the investigative nature of this job made Portia feel like she was a guard again, but working in a blouse and pants was much nicer than armor.

She heard someone shuffling in the shady archway that led back to the main streets, and she glanced upward to see a frail, old woman in ragged clothing. Large eyes with dark circles watched her with interest.

"Hello, Simplicia," Portia greeted, walking away from the crime scene. No doubt the beggar had seen her enter the courtyard and wished to speak with someone whom she trusted. Portia had a good reputation among the beggars, for she'd worked many jobs involving them while in the Blades, but she was still an outsider, and that meant that she had to grease the wheels a little.

"Ma'am," Simplicia replied, casting a scared glance at the bloody bedroll. "He was killed in his sleep. Imagine if I had been using that bedroll, 'cause I usually sleep here. It's frightening, it is. Poor fellow."

"Were you around when it happened?" Portia asked.

"Oh no! No! I...wasn't here." Portia noticed that the woman kept staring at the grated sewer opening at the far edge of the clearing, and she knew better than to ignore the detail, slight as it was.

"That's a shame," she told the beggar. "Because I would very much like to help, but I can't do it without information. You remember me, don't you?" Simplicia hurriedly nodded.

"Yes, ma'am. You've talked to me before, and you gave me bread...such nice, warm bread. I would love to have some again." There it was: the subtle request for a bribe.

"I might be able to buy you some if I make some progress on this mystery," Portia sighed.

"Oh, very nice, ma'am," Simplicia smiled. "But we shouldn't talk here." She motioned toward the sewer. "There might be ears." Portia nodded and allowed the beggar to lead her away from the courtyard and to another corner of the market. She thought that the homeless woman was being a little paranoid, but if the woman had seen something, speaking might mean endangering her life. "Here we are," Simplicia told her. "But I really am hungry."

"Have a few coins," Portia said, and tossed a small purse to the beggar. "So what happened?"

"Well, I let a new beggar use my bedroll—sort of a welcoming to the family, and I went to get an empty sack to use as a pillow. When I came back, it was very dark, but I saw someone walking around the clearing. I thought, "Well that's odd", because people don't usually bother us at night. You see, night isn't a good time for anyone to be out, and people don't trust us beggars, and well...you understand, ma'am, that I don't allow just anyone to share my bedroll, but there have been rumors lately..."

"Rumors?" Portia asked, intrigued.

"Oh yes," and Simplicia vigorously nodded her head, eyes wide. "Someone else went missing, but he wasn't reported, 'cause no one takes us poor people seriously. He went done in the sewers to hunt rats, but he never came back."

"So you think that he's dead?" Portia frowned.

"I know it. I just know it. Skinny Bones wasn't bright, but he never puttered around where he didn't belong. We found his dagger near the sewer entrance, and, and—and a fingernail! It was stuck between a crack in the wall...Oh, just imagine, ma'am! He was trying to escape, and something pulled him back down there to finish him off." But why was there no sound? That was what didn't make sense to Portia. Surely the man would have screamed.

"So did you see who's killing people?" she asked.

"I just saw a shadow, but the person was all robed. It was dark, but I swear the robe was red, and I thought it was a vampire, but they don't kill with daggers. I was so scared that I kept hidden and saw the devil doing something to the body. I don't know what, but Minnow was dead when the person...well, it looked like he was messing with the body. Then he went down into the sewers, and here I am, no bedroll, and no place to sleep."

"Thank you for your time. I have more work to do, but here are more coins for your trouble," Portia said. "You can buy the bread for yourself."

"Thank you kindly," and the beggar ran off, clearly uncomfortable with the idea that she'd shared her tale. Portia didn't blame her, for if someone was killing off beggars, the entire population would be on edge. Perhaps she should...No, Portia knew that going into the sewers by herself was a terrible idea. If Arelius's other Blade had nearly died fighting against these attackers on an open deck, the sewers would be an absolute deathtrap. It wasn't that a visit wasn't in order, but she had to be prepared for it, and she would report to Arelius first. If he tried to saddle her with leading a group down there, the answer would be a resounding 'no', no matter what argument he spouted.

Red robes—it sounded like the Mythic Dawn, but why would they be killing beggars? She needed to see the body, which would be sitting at the morgue. She wanted to know what the murderer had been doing to the corpse, and as she moved in that direction, her eyes moved toward the courtyard. Had anyone been noting her interest from the sewers? If so, her ability to secretly get closer to the killer might already be jeopardized. If someone snuck up on her while she was sleeping, would she even be able to leave Oblivion fast enough to save herself? Her light sleeping habits had come to a halt with Oblivion's interference, and that meant that she needed to notify Arelius of her possible endangerment. Someone had to be watching the manor, just in case.

With that in mind, she easily found the morgue. If the sign didn't give it away, the smell would, for there was an undeniable stench that permeated the surrounding air. It came from the 'Unclaimed', which was a large room where bodies found on the streets were housed until someone claimed them (they had several days), or until the city paid for a burial. There weren't many bodies in such a condition, but it only took one decomposing corpse to create an effect, even if the room was heavily sealed. The workers didn't like the smell, and they wanted to keep necromancers out. Portia suspected that some of the bodies were sold when no one was looking, but as long as no one wanted them, no one created a fuss.

She stepped into the building, which was separated from the rest of the city by being crammed into a corner off of the Arena. It was walled in, and upon entering, Portia was relieved to find that the air was heavily scented with aromatic candles that somewhat masked the nature of the building's residents.

"I need to look at the murder victim from last night," she announced before the clerk could even speak. The man huffed and crossed his arms.

"Under what authority?" he demanded, eyeing her like she might be a necromancer in disguise. She rolled her eyes and was about to reply when a voice cut her off.

"It's alright; she's with me." Arelius?

"Hello, captain," she greeted when he stepped out of the back room. He nodded in reply and gave her a gentle smile.

"I take it that you found something," he approvingly stated, and she nodded. "Good. Come take a look at the body, and tell me what you think while you're here." She followed him into the next room, where a bloated, nude, and discolored body lay on a low table. The skin was an odd purple color that made Portia curl her lip in disgust.

"The poison did that?" she asked.

"Yes. It took only a short time for it to affect the beggar's entire system after he was stabbed right beneath the heart. If he was lucky, he died from blood loss before the poison took full effect." Portia didn't want to look at the glazed eyes or open wound any longer than she had to, but she was used to this, and at least the morgue had rinsed off the excess dried blood that sometimes clung to fresh victims. She gazed at the hole in the man's chest, and noted that the blade must have been about two inches across, but then she looked to Arelius. She had done this sort of work for years, but bodies still made her uncomfortable. Fighting was fine, but the aftermath was always unpleasant, and she usually dealt with combat missions and snooping, not cleanup. The detailed investigation of murders was not her speciality.

"I talked to a beggar," she told him. "The killer wore red robes and did something to the body after the killing." Arelius reached out and lifted one of the corpse's arms, revealing a second wound, although a small one, right in the armpit.

"I figured as much," he said. "Someone drained blood from the body."

"For a dark ritual, perhaps?" Portia asked, knowing that daedra worship called for blood, depending on the prince. Mehrunes probably demanded blood, and the thought made her uneasy. Mythic Dawn in the city. Rituals. Mehrunes chasing her...

"Are you alright?" Arelius asked.

"I don't like the smell," she told him, and the captain smiled.

"I'd forgotten," he seemed to fondly recall. "You can go if you'd like. Report to me when I get home."

"Do I have orders until then? I was thinking that something has to be done about the sewers since that's how the killers are getting around."

"I take it that you've already figured out who the killers work for," Arelius said, scanning the room for unwanted listeners.

"Yes," she answered, and he nodded.

"Your orders are to keep up your work at the palace." _And nothing else?_ "I already have someone who will look into the sewers." Now that was unlike the captain, for normally he would entrust someone already on the case, like Portia, to continue the investigation, but now he was basically telling her to sit on the sidelines. She looked at him with a puzzled expression before the pieces began falling into place, and their eyes locked together in a silent conversation. He _did_ know that Mehrunes was after her. His actions spoke louder than words, and she understood now why he didn't want her on this case. He didn't want the Mythic Dawn to notice her.

"You always look out for me," she told him, and Arelius gave her the barest of smiles. "I'll be at the manor if you need me." And her actions also spoke loudly, for normally, she wouldn't have unquestioningly let his strange behavior pass. She looked for understanding in his face, but he was so damned good at masking his thoughts.

"We'll talk about it later," he told her. "I'm glad that you figured it out." He was proud of her, and she knew it. With a grateful expression, she stepped back and prepared to leave. Arelius, however, had to slip in one last comment. "It's good to see that your sword is back where it belongs." She didn't bother to reply as she continued walking. Sometimes she wanted to throttle that man.

*************

So she knew. That was what he expected from her, and yet again, she failed to disappoint. Arelius smiled as he watched his pupil go her own way, sword comfortably on her hip. Of course, now he had to decide what to do with the knowledge that she'd gained. It would make working with her easier, for he wouldn't need to include strange omissions in his instructions to her, but on the other hand, the mages would be displeased.

_They don't need to know_, he decided. In fact, he was thrilled that Portia could now be fully informed and prepared to handle her situation. What had she done about it so far? There was fear concerning her inclinations to go solo on such personal problems, but he would speak with her about that and offer assistance. That way, he would know what she was up to, and it was perhaps better to be part of her activities than to monitor from a distance. He'd tried the distancing approach during her decision to leave the Blades, and a resolution to that incident had been a long time coming. Perhaps, if he'd pushed her harder, sooner, she'd have returned much faster. Akatosh knew that he could have used her during the assassinations.


	11. Chapter 11: Meddling Mages & Wrath

Okay, so to clear a few things up: I realize that the daedric script is actually just a substitution for the English alphabet, and that words are basically the same; however, it seems to me that Oblivion and Tamriel might have differences in language, especially since the Dwemer and Ayleid had their own languages. It makes sense that the dremora would speak something different and older than the common tongue. That's the route that I've taken.

Also, this is the beginning of a second phase in the story, and Mehrunes Dagon will be more active, and his perspective will become important. I'm not entirely satisfied with my first portrayal of his thoughts, but oh well. As for any other questions, just shoot them my way. Read, enjoy, review.

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Chapter 10

Arelius stood by the window, keeping an eye on the courtyard below. His wife had strict instructions, that if anyone came looking for him, she was to lead them through the courtyard to reach his chambers and office. That way he could see them coming, and at a time when the mages were requesting to see him, he did not take that advantage lightly.

"I have an audience with the Arch-Mage in several days," he stated, keeping half of his attention outside and half on the two women in his company. One was Tamil, who although in pain, had returned to walking. She moved slowly, and her red eyes sometimes narrowed in silent strife, but she was whole and anxious to return to work. Her Dunmer features focused on Arelius with the attentiveness that he expected, her head propped elegantly on one hand, and a few black strands of hair dangling in her face.

Portia sat beside the dark elf, her green tunic more striking in color when compared to Tamil's black outfit. She was equally attentive, but her eyes did not glow with the promise of future missions as the elf's did. She was the more reserved in action of the two, for Tamil would jump into a fight, whereas Portia would test the waters first. Tamil was also often bitingly acerbic just for the hell of it, but when given a direct order, she tended to respectfully hold her opinions and do the job. It was a sharp contrast to Portia, who openly stated her opinion despite rank, and who, while seemingly more passive, would outright refuse to do something with which she couldn't agree. Arelius valued both of them in their differences, and he thought that together they'd make a beautiful team, even if both preferred working alone.

"What do the mages want?" Portia asked.

"As usual, they didn't say," Arelius stated, his obvious distaste for working with the university showing through. "But I'm sure that it has something to do with the chaos sphere. Perhaps they've found a way to secure it." Portia frowned while one of her hands moved to touch the sphere that was warm against her fingers. She had grown accustomed to the earring and its energy, despite the disconcerting flashes of Oblivion and Mehrunes' moods that accompanied it, and so she was no longer overly anxious to be rid of it. In fact, she needed the sphere if she was to implement her spying plan, and Arelius knew it.

She hadn't shared her entire plan with her superior yet, for she'd only informed him that she had visions of Oblivion, and that they corresponded to events in Tamriel, but he understood her intentions. Beyond that, she kept details to herself, not wanting to discuss her meetings with Mehrunes or her sudden physical afflictions, and she didn't need to. She'd dropped a subtle hint that she'd speak to Arelius when she had something worth sharing, and he'd taken the message in stride, knowing that she wouldn't have said anything if she didn't plan on making good on her words. She would do this, but on her terms, which was why she had approached him in such a manner. It was amazing what two people could tell each other without so many words.

"I've spoken with a friend in the university," Portia stated. "And he seems to think that the sphere is safer with me than the mages. Corruption will be an issue at the university."

"It's valuable," Tamil agreed. "And we've already seen that Traven is willing to use his office for personal agendas. I'd rather not give that necromancer hater a power boost. Has the monk said anything?"

"He wants the mages involved to control the artifact," Arelius explained. "But I've mentioned Portia's vision ability, and he's agreed to allow us flexibility. Until the artifact is safer somewhere else, we are to keep it. Even then, the university might not be the place that we ultimately store it, but we are still discussing the matter. Under no condition are we to give the mages any leverage."

"So what will you tell them?" Portia asked.

"You have an inside source, but do you trust him?" Arelius asked, and she nodded. "Then use your friend to keep an eye on the university's progress or intentions. For my part, I'll keep the mages out of our hair, and both of you are to continue working as if they weren't involved. If any problems arise," he fixed Portia with a commanding stare, "You'll report them directly to me."

"Yes, sir," Tamil said, Portia echoing her.

"Then we're finished for the day," he continued. "Tamil, I trust that you received the letter that I left in your room," and the elf nodded. "You have your instructions then. Portia, you are free to do as you see fit until I need you, but I'd request that you keep me informed on your research. You will be more reliable than the mages, I'm sure." Portia wanted to make a comment at his underlining message of "don't disappoint me", but she stilled her tongue, and he must have sensed it, for he lightly smiled. "I've also spoken to the palace librarian, and she is to allow you to remove books without the proper authorization process. No one will know what you're reading."

"Thank you," Portia replied, now feeling a little more secure in her situation. Having the support of two fellow Blades was appreciated, and their discretion could be counted on. "I'll see you both later" she bid the others as she stood and left. Tamil soon followed suit, and Arelius was left in solitude. Lucretia would send a servant with lunch in a matter of minutes, and then she'd arrive to keep him company. He smiled and longed for a night off so that he could give the lovely woman the attention that she deserved, but tonight wouldn't be the night, and thank Akatosh for long-suffering wives. He stepped back from the window and tossed Traven's request in the fireplace to be burned once the chill of the night set it.

The university had given him the bare minimum of information on the chaos sphere, and he'd suspected as much, but his suspicions had only been confirmed by Portia, who'd filled in many missing details. He wondered if she was withholding anything from him, but he couldn't be certain either way. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't ignore any endangerment to her health, and while she might trust his judgement, she didn't like his meddling. And so any omissions on her part might be an effort to block his fatherly nature from kicking in, and so long as that didn't inhibit her work, he'd let it slide. He smiled to himself and knew that he'd have to wait Portia's silence out—let her get comfortable with his guidance again. She had trusted him enough to come back to his service, and he would have to trust her enough to handle her own affairs with Oblivion.

Once, when she'd been a new recruit, she'd have told him anything and everything. He could remember how her eyes shone with pride when she completed a mission, and how she'd expressed herself more openly. That had changed over time, and while it hadn't surprised him, he was a bit disappointed that she'd become so cynical. Blades tended to become more serious and skeptical after years of near-death experiences and long, hard nights, but he always liked the bright optimism of recruits. They were anxious to please and charge into combat, but those traits were, by nature, flaws in a job where patience and calculation were most prized. Portia had been no different, except that maybe she'd been a little more adoring of him than others, and for a time, he was convinced that she was infatuated with him. She had since grown into a perfect Blade, or at least she would return to being one once she got back on her feet.

A knock sounded on his door, and he knew that it was lunch. He turned to open the door, having already made a decision about his meeting with mages. He trusted Portia more than them, and so he would tell them exactly what they had told him: nothing.

**************

Portia had time on her hands, and she wanted to use it wisely. With her language book in hand, she found her favorite spot in the palace library and settled down to read. Sunlight cascaded down through a circular window above her chair, and she watched the sunbeams spread across the floor, illuminating a finely woven carpet and the tips of her boots. It was a pleasant afternoon, and one on which she hadn't been working, which was a bonus. She really was lucky that her life was going so well, considering that she was a wanted woman.

The daedric alphabet and words flowed by her vision, but there was one particular line that was giving her difficulties, and Portia glared at it in thought. She had seen that word before, but its meaning eluded her. She knew that she must have seen it in Oblivion, and so she thought about each room that she frequented, one step at a time. Not the bedroom, she decided, and not the courtyard. Perhaps on a statue—no, it was the throne. She had seen this carving on the back of the throne, and she quickly turned to the back of the book where there was a dictionary. Her fingers skimmed the page until she located exactly what she wanted: Doirtem. There was no equivalent in common tongue, but the explanation was thus:

_The belief that the strong have a right to rule the weaker, and that they instill order in the world. Without strong control, there would no direction, and together, the weak and strong form a single-minded force under the ruler. _

"Interesting," Portia mused. The concept sounded like something that Mehrunes Dagon would subscribe to, and she was guessing that he did if the word was on his throne. Perhaps firm order was necessary in a world like Oblivion, for she couldn't imagine the dremora without a controlling force. They looked like vicious demons, but their loyalty to Mehrunes kept them in line, and from what she'd read, there was a strong sense of community among dremora. In fact, the Deadlands seemed utterly unified and orderly, which would mean that Mehrunes did a decent job at ruling. Now there was a strange thought, and Portia found herself frowning. She wondered if Mehrunes was as brutal with his subjects as he'd been with her, for if so, decent was not the word for his reign. Any reign driven on fear was not her idea of an applaudable realm, but then again, she remembered how the dremora almost seemed proud when called to serve their master. Obviously, it wasn't just fear that drove them to his will.

"Ah," Portia gasped, a hand flying to her hip. The pain was back, and she lifted her palm to find that blood was seeping through her tunic. Damn, but this would not be a good condition to be seen in, especially since the blood took on the pattern of her wound. The bloody design now staining her clothing reminded her of the humiliation of being marked by her tormenter, and she sighed bitterly. For the rest of her life, this was what she had to look forward to, and it was his fault. What had he done to ensure that it wouldn't heal? There were times that the jaggedly carved lines almost looked like they might recede, but then they would open again, right before fresh skin overcame the scabs, and she knew that it was intentional.

_Not again_, she inwardly moaned as the temperature in the room seemed to spike. Oblivion tempted her, asking her to sleep and fall into its grasp, but she hated doing so under the sphere's influence, and so she refused. Too bad the heat wouldn't drop, and something settled in the pit of her stomach, twisting and turning, making her feel uncomfortable and a bit excited. It wasn't that she was excited, but Mehrunes was, and she could feel his mood descending on her.

"No," she whispered to herself as the chaos sphere's orange insides wildly swirled. She would not last long at this rate, and the rim of her vision was growing darker and darker. The book! She closed it and set it on the floor, knowing that she had little time left. Hopefully today would not be the day that someone else came to the attic, and that was her last coherent thought as the book's cover hit the carpet. Then the room around her was a tempest of colors and noise, her mind spinning as half of her entered Oblivion, the second half soon being dragged along for the ride.

…

…

With a pained gasp, Portia found herself laying on a cold stone floor, and for a moment, she saw nothing. She only registered the stone beneath her, warm air, and a fuzzy, deep noise that seemed to wrap her in a blanket. A hand blindly groped forward, touching something smooth and silky, and Portia focused on the feel of fabric between her fingers rather than the ringing in her ears.

"Being," a voice demanded. She slowly opened her eyes and rolled onto her back, hand still clutching whatever it had found. Mehrunes was staring down at her where she lay directly at his feet, and he was speculatively eyeing her unexpected resting place. "Damned thing," he snorted. "Dropping out of the ceiling...you're lucky that I'm in a pleasant mood." He was staring at her hand, or so Portia assumed from the angle of his eyes, and she quickly realized that she was holding onto the edge of his sheet. She was on the floor between him and the bed, and while he couldn't see her arm or hand, the tension that she was putting on the bed covering was obvious. She released and let the sheet fall back into place, but Mehrunes did not leave her alone. Instead, he crouched, two hands resting on the floor, and the other two on the bed. Portia felt trapped beneath him, and she wished that she could sink into the floor as she stared upward at him. In such an odd position, it occurred to her that he smelled faintly of spice and something muskier, which wasn't unpleasant, but unexpected.

"If I didn't know better," Mehrunes said, head tilted forward. "I'd say that you don't always choose to come to Oblivion. And why would that be?" He knew that she wouldn't answer, but he waited before continuing anyway. "Something pulls you here," he concluded. "It makes you feel vulnerable, doesn't it?" He chuckled and rose from his muscular haunches. "You are vulnerable." He didn't walk away, but rather stood there, looking at the bed's surface. Portia remained where she was for several minutes, and occasionally Mehrunes would reach out and move something on the bed, but she had no idea what. Her low advantage point didn't afford much of a view.

"Are you going to move, or do you want to annoy me?" he suddenly asked, and Portia responded by scooting out from beneath him and standing. She noticed that he was twirling a dagger between his fingers again, and the bed was strewn with clothing—expensive clothing. The finery looked like it was made for humans, and so Portia could not fathom what the daedric prince was up to, but he was still happy. Portia gingerly walked around him toward the large artifact table, and looked at his collection for a third time while he was busy. She was only thinking about touching an interesting looking ring when a snarl interrupted her.

"Don't," Mehrunes warned. Portia marveled at how easily he made a simple order sound like a death sentence. Not many could do that, and so she backed off, but not without deciding to express herself. She noticed an inkblot, quill, and piece of parchment sitting on the edge of the table, and she moved closer to see that the paper was a list of clothing. She snatched up the quill with determination once her side began aching again, for she was sick of his comments, and she'd been around him long enough to push the barriers of her security. With a few strokes, she finished the daedric word that she wanted and stepped back, expecting Mehrunes to investigate since he seemed impatient by nature. Instead, he waited, and meanwhile Portia felt a lifting sensation that signaled her approaching departure. She'd only been drawn into Oblivion by Mehrunes' emotions, and he was calmer now, so there was nothing to tie her to unconsciousness.

She closed her eyes and waited to return to her world while Mehrunes Dagon sensed her dwindling presence. With a sharp snap, she completely disappeared from his perception, and his only acknowledgment was a quick flick of his eyes toward the table. His visitor was a curious addition to Oblivion, and tonight had confirmed his suspicions: outside forces were brining the being into his world, but how that should be, he could not fathom. It was a problem that he'd spent hours considering, and dremora mages had scanned volumes of books looking for an explanation to no avail. It was a mystery that he was determined to solve one way or another, and he was sure that he'd have found a solution by now if he weren't so distracted.

His forces marched and readied themselves for combat while he monitored Oblivion's weakening barriers with relish. Whenever a tear in space grew large enough, he used is own power to widen the gap so that his armies could ravage Tamriel, and it was about damn time. He was sick of mortals running about their business without fear of the immortals—as if they were the masters of all before them—and their attitude plus that cursed pact that barred the more aggressive daedra like himself from correcting their habits, frustrated the lord of Oblivion. True, there were those that worshipped him, but he found that respect among humans was lacking, and he had a bone to pick with the empire for limiting his activities. For these grievances and his love of causing violent trouble, he would spread his domain and will, and just let the other princes try to stop him. Mehrunes Dagon liked power, and he had never claimed otherwise.

Making a decision, he selected an outfit from his collection and set it aside. He would be leaving Oblivion in a matter of hours, and the anticipation made it impossible to sit still, so he paced. He paced, twirled a dagger, and delighted in thinking that he was about to join the hunt. Yes, he was going to find that thief and make her pay for daring to steal his chaos sphere, wherever the bitch was hiding. He had thought that pinpointing the sphere's location would be easy, for it would be just like a puny, idiot human to try and harness the artifact's power, which in turn would resonate with his senses and lead him to the sphere; however, the expected power waves had been lacking. In fact, and perhaps more disturbing, was the frequent feeling that the sphere was not far from him at all. The sensation came and went, so strong at times that it was as if he still wore the other earring, and then, suddenly, he would sense it far away, in the very heart of Tamriel, where he had located it. Once there, tracking it down would be much easier.

Still, the entire situation was not unfolding as he anticipated, and being a creature of expectations, he found himself annoyed with the situation. Every day that the thief escaped his wrath was an insult that multiplied the offense, and if that woman had bragged about her steal...Mehrunes felt his temper boiling, and he suddenly wanted to go to his training room and grab his favorite ax.

At times his anger grew to the point where he exploded on some poor minion, but he felt it unbecoming to lose total control before his followers, so he tended to keep to his rooms when his mood grew darkest. At such times, he felt that damned being, and now he paused in his pacing and the dagger stopped spinning. He suspected that perhaps the being and the thief were connected, for how else would someone be drawn so strongly to his emotions, but he had a difficult time believing that, for the being stuck close to his side. If it was the thief, there was no way that she'd come close to him. It simply didn't make sense, and while he looked down on mortals, he didn't think that someone who'd snuck into Oblivion could be _that_ stupid. No, there was another explanation, and his pacing resumed.

_She could be very brave_, Mehrunes thought, but that would mean that there was something to admire about the thieving wench, and he found the thought distasteful. Some of the princes prized secrecy or knowledge, even rape, but Mehrunes praised courage and audacity, for which he decorated any dremora who'd proven himself. He believed in merit, strength, and the ability of destruction to rebuild the world. Mortals and even other daedra mocked his philosophy, but being who he was, he didn't care. Unless the princes said something directly to his face at one of their gatherings, he let their comments slide, and really, although he hated to admit it, the others were as equally powerful as himself—not that he'd never place someone like Sheogorath on the same level as himself, but there were others like Molag Bal who would prove tough opponents.

"Simpering fools," he breathed aloud as he stopped at the foot of his bed. The princes held such power, and he could not understand why some of them expressed no interest in using it. He accorded them respect for their abilities, but his brothers sometimes annoyed him to the point of no return with their mundane discussions on mortal happenings, but without interest in meddling in them. They were often content in their own worlds, but Mehrunes looked out over Oblivion and wanted more. There were times that being in this palace bored him, and after centuries of going through a routine of ruling, a break into the mortal realm was welcomed. This was the most excitement that he'd had in decades, especially since he would walk another plane for blood. He wasn't keen to loosen his power, but for the sake of experience and finding that damned thief, he was willing to compromise.

He was going to find her and cut her apart as slowly as possible. The look of pain on her face when he'd marked her hip had been priceless, and then her fury at his handiwork...exquisite. The anger that must have existed to make that woman strike a daedric prince had to be outstanding, and he was a man who knew and admired the power of anger. It could drive the weakest person to greatness, and he had seen that potential in the thief. He could not deny how much her reaction and force had surprised him, and under other circumstances, he would have applauded her. In some sick way, he did, and he hoped that she showed as much spirit when he personally broke her. He didn't want it to be easy, and he certainly didn't want her to prove his previous inclination toward her an illusion. He sensed strength in her, as he did in that being, and there was no fun in taunting and battling someone weak.

What had that thing written anyway? He suddenly moved toward the parchment and growled when he saw the word that graced it: Urog. It was basically the equivalent of calling someone a bastard, but with a nastier edge. He chuckled and burned the paper to a crisp with a flick of his finger. It was a good thing that the being had left, or he'd have a few lessons in manners to dish out, and then he'd truly test the person's bravery to the limits. Whoever it was, he'd passed the test so far, and Mehrunes admitted that he was enjoying playing with the person's nerves. Life really could be dull, and then this being popped out of nowhere and trailed him. Unlike dremora, who unconditionally showed him respect, the being would get close, touch things, write insults. It didn't sit well with him, but it was refreshing in a strange way, and he had a convenient excuse not to apply punishment since technically he couldn't do any harm.

Mehrunes moved to a window and stared out at the comforting lava flows. So this was what the prince of destruction had been reduced to: inviting a pestering being to follow him because he was sick of his domain. It was laughable and pathetic, but the monotony would soon end, and so he relaxed and impatiently waited for the hours to pass. Sometimes he wished that the being would speak, for he was sure that the person was mildly interesting—not that he'd thought that at first. No, he'd been furious to discover another intruder in his quarters, for it was downright degrading to have someone sneak into a prince's personal chambers, but then the being had come back again and again. With no way to dissuade the presence, he had grown to tolerate it, and perhaps even look forward to having something to distract him in day to day life.

What would the being do once he left Oblivion? He put some thought into the question and decidedly did not like the results. He might be stolen from again, so that meant that he'd need to post a guard in his quarters at all times. What a nuisance, but it wouldn't stop him from leaving. Let the spirit do as it pleased so long as he was free from the stifling palace walls. He had property to reclaim, and Oblivion's wrath was nothing to laugh at.


	12. Chapter 12: The Cure for Boredom

Chapter 11:

Horace stood in the background of the room as Ruined Cloak and his assistants prepared themselves for the ceremony, regarding the mute work with mild interest. He almost thought that this wouldn't work, for the procedure seemed rather simple for opening a gateway to Oblivion, but then again, he knew nothing of magic. He had no contribution to make to the hocus-pocus, and it wasn't even necessary that he be here, which he'd rather not be. For one, they were in the sewers, standing in a large chamber beneath his house, and he hated the sewers. He could even hear a rat scurrying down a corridor to his left, and he wondered if the rumors of vampires inhabiting the sewers were true. Two, he disliked these Mythic Dawn members, and he was skipping a very lavish meal with a lady friend for this.

Horace might have been sorely tempted to leave, but he kept his misgivings to himself, for if this ceremony did work, he'd have a daedric prince in his home. The idea was so abstract at this point that he didn't treat it with the prudent severity that it deserved, but he was quick to adapt to any situation, so he didn't worry. Just in case he was faced with his master, he had prepared the quest room with special care, and he'd done exactly as instructed regarding rumors of his impending visitor. Above all else, he didn't want to appear disloyal by not being here when the lord arrived. That would be the height of idiocy, and so Horace remained where he was.

The flickering light of several lanterns turned the three cloaked mages before him into phantom-like figures, their long arms extending and drawing the symbol of Oblivion on the floor. White chalk scratched cold stone while Ruined Cloak removed several objects from a bag at his feet, and then the man waited until the others had finished their work to set a bowl down at the edge of the circle. To Horace's annoyance, the bowl was one his serving dishes—make that ex-serving dish, for he'd never use it again once he saw what Ruined Cloak was doing with it.

The leader uncorked a glass flask that held some dark liquid, and with a few muttered words, he poured the contents into the bowl. _Blood_, Horace realized, and he wondered who the poor bastard was that had lost his life. Then again, he wouldn't put it past these fanatics to bleed themselves for the ceremony. He had actually brought a dagger with him, just in case a sacrifice was needed for this and he was selected as a volunteer. He wanted to roll his eyes as the Mythic Dawn members seemed to fidget with excitement, and a second flask was emptied. Horace could care less about who had died, so rather than the blood, he closely watched Ruined Cloak's hands, for he was hoping to catch a glimpse of skin—anything that might hint at identity, but the hands were gloved in black.

Next came the bonemeal, which was added to the blood with equal patience and mumbling, and Ruined Cloak began offering a pray to Mehrunes Dagon as he stirred the concoction with...his fingers? _He'll never get the stain out_, Horace absently thought, and concluded that there was a reason that daedra worshippers kept to themselves, because they were clearly odd individuals. And Horace was allowed to think that, because he wasn't here because he believed in Mehrunes' right to rule or some mumbo jumbo about righting the word by unleashing Oblivion. No, he wasn't a nut like these people, who he personally thought had ingested too much skooma or something, but he did know an opportunity when he saw one. The promise of Oblivion was compelling after the assassinations had occurred, and so he'd made a few subtle inquiries. Then the first Oblivion Gate had opened, and that's when he knew that playing both sides might be beneficial. He hadn't ever expected to be called on for more than spying, but here he was.

"Hear us, daedric prince," Ruined Cloak was saying. "Hear our call and summons. We open the portal for you." He was adding something to the bloody bowl at his feet, but Horace couldn't tell what it was. It looked like some kind plant, and then there was a black substance that looked like ink in the faint light. More words were chanted by the other two Dawn members, and then Ruined Cloak pulled out a scroll, and the words dripped from his lips with near ecstasy. These people were definitely not in a right state of mind, but as the chanting grew louder, and the scroll's magic began vibrating the room's air, Horace found himself drawn to the scene.

The hairs on the back of his neck began to rise, and he couldn't removed his eyes from the chalk circle, for the symbol seemed to glow a ghostly white. It was uncanny and rhythmic, the very air in Horace's lungs seeming to swell with dark promise. He had never seen such a ritual first hand, and as the room began to warm, he wondered if Oblivion drew closer.

Were those sparks of red that he'd seen jump about the symbol? He looked closer and almost took a step forward, but he kept himself still. The reality of his situation was crowding his mind, and as he came to accept that he might really house Mehrunes Dagon, he began to contemplate how he should speak and act. _Be smooth and compliant_. That was the best that he could come up with, and while he knew that his charms might work on his fellow mortals, would a daedric prince with years of experience buy his act? Of everything that he had to consider, he knew that whatever happened, he must not let Mehrunes question his devotion. He could gain from this, or he could lose his head, but life was filled with risks, and where he stood to prosper, there were also the deepest pitfalls.

The symbol now glowed like hot embers, and Ruined Cloak's voice was reaching a crescendo. The spell was working. It was actually working, and with a sharp snap, Horace found himself staring not at a darkened room, but a black palace that stood like a fortress against mountains.

Oblivion.

Apprehension gripped Horace, but he maintained his composure as the image sizzled and sent heat across his face. Every bone in his body felt the approach of a presence the likes of which he'd never seen, and he searched for its source. There was something dangerous about what was coming, as if chaos itself rose toward him, and as the portal flashed and then vanished, he narrowed his eyes, trying to see again in the sudden darkness. Some dark figure stood in the circle, but he could not make out who...

"My lord," Ruined Cloak respectfully greeted, and the man dropped to his knees. His head touched the floor, as did the other two Dawn members, and Horace prudently followed suit even if his vision hadn't cleared. He did not touch his head to the ground, for he'd never be so subservient, but he did lower his head as if in reverence, all the while peering up through his bangs to see if the lord of Oblivion looked anything like his statues.

"Where am I?" a deep voice questioned.

"The sewers beneath the Elven Gardens district in the capitol," Horace boldly answered. He heard a snort of derision.

"That explains the smell. Get off the ground, humans. You have done well, so there's no need to grovel. I save that for people whom I dislike." Horace raised his head, and there stood Mehrunes, but it was not what he expected. The prince looked oddly like...well, not exactly like an Imperial, but that was as close as he could generalize. The prince was human in form, with lightly tanned skin and the blackest of hair. It was pulled back into a ponytail that exposed a handsome face and black eyes that Horace avoided looking into because of their disquieting nature. A rich, green outfit adorned the prince's body, and even with the clothing, Horace could tell that the man was muscled, and apparently ready for action, for there was a sword at his waist.

"Who is this?" Mehrunes asked, referring to Horace as Ruined Cloak rose from the floor.

"Horace Pantrov, my lord," the Imperial answered, "and your host for the duration of your stay. As I understand it, you are a diplomat from Morrowind, and trust me, the court is anxious to receive you."

"Good," Mehrunes smirked, and then he returned his attention to Ruined Cloak. "How long have you been here?"

"Many days, my lord. We have been in hiding, preparing for your arrival. We shall remain here and await your pleasure while you live on the surface."

"I certainly wasn't planning on staying here," Mehrunes grunted with a glance around the sewer. "And what progress has been made on locating the artifact?"

"We cannot find it, my lord. I apologize, but it remains lost to us. With your lordship here, I'm sure that it will be recovered soon."

"And the heir?"

"We," Ruined Cloak began, but Horace was sick of being a spectator.

"He is not in the city, wherever he is," he broke in. "That much is certain, and from what I've heard, he's a bastard, so he won't be living well."

"That's all?" Mehrunes questioned, and the room was silent. "Get me out of this filthy sewer." Horace motioned toward the flight of stairs to his left and offered a small bow.

"This way, if you please. We've been expecting you." He had ensured that every servant was gone for the night, for he didn't want any rumors about Mehrunes' mysterious arrival. Instead, they would assume that he'd come through normal methods since they'd been out, but Horace had seen that they prepared food and drink before leaving. He wasn't sure what a hungry daedric lord was like, but he didn't want to find out.

"This is my home, and the servants shall return tomorrow," he stated. "They've already been told to treat you well, so they will be at your beck and call." He led the way, Mehrunes behind him, and he wondered if he felt hidden power within his visitor because he knew what lay beneath the disguise or because even in this form, Mehrunes emitted otherworldly strength. Either way, he was on his most cordial behavior as he paused outside of a bedroom door. "These are your quarters, my lord."

"The guest room," Mehrunes mused, and Horace momentarily stiffened. Black eyes dug into his, and the prince gave a cold smile. "You're ambitious, direct, and like control—very admirable, but see to it that you don't overstep your bounds, Imperial."

"Of course," Horace said with an apologetic bow. "If you'd like..."

"It would not do to give me the master bedroom," Mehrunes continued. "It would look suspicious, but I'm sure that you already knew that." He chuckled darkly and opened the door. "How soon am I expected at court?"

"Tomorrow or the next day would be best. There is a party tomorrow night that would be an excellent means of introduction, and I dare say that the most powerful people in the city will be there. They might be of use to you, and there is the matter of formality."

"Then we go tomorrow," Mehrunes agreed.

"Is there anything else that you require for the night, my lord?"

"No. I have...adjustments to make. We will discuss our work in the morning." Horace nodded and gave a short bow in parting. He did not want to spend more time than necessary around the prince, especially when he needed time to test how best to act around the daedra.

"It was an honor to meet you," he said as he rose from his bow to find Mehrunes examining his newly acquired room.

"Flattery won't get you anywhere with me, human," the prince stated. "Just a warning before you try that Imperial charm with me, because it won't work. I sense that you want something out of this arrangement." Horace stood silently, not denying his interest, and Mehrunes stared at him with a blank expression. "Do your job well, and I don't care what your personal motivations are. I want that artifact back, and I will get it. What do you want, Imperial?"

"Power and influence, my lord," he answered, and Mehrunes nodded approvingly.

"You'll get it if you serve me well." There was nothing else to say, and Horace sensed that he had silently been dismissed, so he left the prince to scrutinize his surroundings. There was a daedric prince in his house, and the idea still seemed foreign, but the lord of destruction had just offered him power, so he'd tolerate anything. Tomorrow the ruse began, and he wondered if Mehrunes would play his part well, for the prince did not seem patient or friendly. Hopefully no one offended him, and Horace would need to make sure that his reputation escaped any incidents intact.

**************

Mehrunes Dagon studied his new surroundings with interest. There was a large bed at the room's far side, two windows either side of the headboard, and thick, red curtains obscured his view of the city below. The furnishings were obviously expensive, and a rack of wine had been moved into the room, as well as a wardrobe packed with the necessities of his fake identity. Compared to his own palace, it wasn't much, but it would be comfortable and suffice his needs, and luxury had never been high on his priority list.

Curious as to what the city looked like, he moved toward the window and observed the night sky, locked homes, and patrolling guards. It had been a long time since he'd witnessed such a domestic scene, and even longer since he'd lived among one. He would favor his martial society over this any day, but there was something about the air in Tamriel that he had always liked. It didn't stink of ash and fill his lungs with hot air as in Oblivion, for it was crisp and cool, and he rather liked it. The color of life was also drastically altered, but he had no preference on such things, for he was more likely to examine what kind of armor and weapons were in common use here. He was sure that they were inferior to dremora arms.

With interested eyes, Mehrunes would have stayed at the window and enjoyed the night air if his stomach hadn't growled. With a frown, he rested a hand on his torso and urged the sensation to stop, but it would not. Ah, the inconveniences of taking on a human form, for he was not used to hunger, and feeling something so mortal irked him to no end. At least Horace had put a platter of fruit in his room, which Mehrunes devoured in a matter of minutes. It wasn't that he never ate when in Oblivion, but he didn't need to, so he rarely indulged.

_The red one is good_, he decided as he ate the last apple. He'd forgotten what the fruit was called, for it wasn't seen in his realm. Many of the daedric princes designed their worlds to mimic that of

Tamriel, but he was not one of them. He was not Nocturnal, who had a love of mortal instruments and music, or Molag Bal, who liked Redguard dancing girls. No, he didn't need such things, and besides the lovely, cool air, there was nothing here to envy. Even when dremora came to Tamriel to explore and fight, they always returned to Oblivion, for most people here were soft and easy prey, whereas Oblivion's lands teemed with wild dangers. The lava and black halls were perfectly suited to their kind, as they were to Mehrunes, for he designed the land to reflect the brutal nature of his power.

He flexed his muscled arms and practiced a few dagger twirls to accustom himself to his new body, and then he looked over himself in the mirror. Perhaps someone might recognize this form, or even the chaos sphere dangling from his ear, but he doubted it. It had been centuries since he'd appeared like this: a man in his prime—no older than thirty-five—with features that were handsome if not a bit common for Imperils. He would blend in except for his tanned skin, but that could be explained away.

_Mortals_, he mused, considering what he must do here. He wanted to go outside and hunt down the thief right now, but he couldn't be seen acting suspiciously. Instead, he had to act like a diplomat, and even mingle with the upper class. Perhaps it would be amusing, although the word 'mingle' left him wanting to cringe. Even when he 'mingled' with the other princes, he wasn't terribly social, mostly listening and making blunt comments on their stories. Perhaps he'd get animated about a battle story or two of his own, but that brought him back to his main problem: boredom and bent up energy that was looking for a release. It had been a long time since he'd rained destruction on anyone, and he craved it like nothing else.

He might be closer to full release into this world if he had the other chaos sphere, which would amplify his power by untold measures. The sphere at his neck glowed intensely as he mentally reached out to find its twin, for neither were complete without the other, and he was their master to call them home. He probed the sleeping city, but there was only a faint glimmer of energy somewhere to the west, and it quickly vanished.

Why was it so difficult to find the other sphere? He did not understand, even as its presence tugged at the back of his mind. He had to get the artifact back, and not just because it was his and he was angry, but because it would make a difference in his battle for freedom. Being in Tamriel and being in Tamriel in full strength were very different, and he was faced with the former at the moment. If only he had...

"Damn," he hissed, feeling his anger rise, but it was late. Perhaps he might give his disgustingly human body a rest before tackling his mission tomorrow. Horace seemed very capable, but slippery. He wouldn't trust the Imperial with his sweet words, but he could use him to find leads on the artifact. Yes, he would soon be in possession of what was his—both the thief and the earring, and then he'd return to his domain, but only after having some fun. There was no cure for boredom and his tendencies like meddling in human affairs.

*************

Portia was in the middle of pouring water into a mug when she felt the energy. It affected her with pain like when she was pulled toward Oblivion, but she did not feel sleepy or disorientated. It was a startling change, and suddenly her head snapped eastward. There—whatever was calling her was somewhere in that direction, on this plane.

_Oh gods..._

"Ma'am...ummm," a servant mumbled, and Portia realized that her cup was overflowing, sending water across the table and onto the floor.

"Sorry," she apologized, setting the pitcher aside. She didn't even drink what she'd poured as she rushed toward her bedroom. She had a very bad feeling that something terrible had just happened.


	13. Chapter 13: Dreading the Worst

Yeah, another chapter! Thanks for the reviews everyone, and enjoy the latest update!

Chapter 12:

_He isn't here._

Portia stood before Mehrunes Dagon's bed and felt like the world had dropped out from beneath her feet. She couldn't sense him anywhere, and although she searched high and low, the Lord of Oblivion had vanished. There was a guard in his room, but nothing else, his treasures hidden away, and the throne room vacant of visitors.

_I have to find him. _

Portia ran, breathing heavily in the stifling air that drifted up from the volcanic vents outside, and heart pounding. She couldn't believe that he had left. It simply wasn't possible with the barriers placed on Oblivion. Surely if he had escaped, Tamriel would know by now, for he was the prince of destruction, and his image fit that of a fearsome warrior. No, he couldn't be loose, but then where was he?

In frustrated anxiety, Portia reached for her ear, the power of the chaos sphere spreading across her fingers. She gripped the earring so tightly that her fingernails bit into her skin, a thin rivulet of blood sliding down her palm, but the pain didn't distract her. She urged the sphere to life, searching for Mehrunes as he had recently done for her. She might be abnormally dense when it came to magic, and she might be highly insulated against the sphere's dangerous power, but she could still feel it respond to her will.

_Find him_, she urged, and something in the back of her mind clicked. With a strange spark, she suddenly felt as if the sphere was unleashing itself, consuming her being and making her yell in pain, but it worked. She suddenly felt Mehrunes, but he was far away. Gods, he really wasn't in Oblivion, was he? She concentrated and felt her sleeping body beginning to stir, pulling her out of the dream and toward her desired target. It was pulling her out of Oblivion because Mehrunes wasn't there.

With a jolt of horrified realization, Portia was ripped from Oblivion.

_Akatosh protect me_.

…

…

…

"Ah!" Portia jerked upward out of her bed, the sheets tangled about her legs and sticky with sweat. Her heart was still pounding, and she quickly kicked the blankets off of the bed and flopped back down. She remained there, staring at the ceiling and calming herself, overwhelmed by the implications of what she had learned. Apparently Mehrunes hadn't overstated how much effort he would put into finding her, but this didn't mean that he was after her. Perhaps he was working on something else, and she didn't even know if he was in the capitol.

_You are mine!_

She shuddered as she recalled the words that had instilled a sense of fatalism in her. No, that wasn't correct, for she'd held herself together quite admirably, and hadn't she been openly trailing him? She almost laughed at her own foolishness, for of course his words had never left her. She thought of them every time she bathed or rewrapped her wound, and then there were the dreams, but somehow she had felt as if a protective barrier separated them—as if he would never actually break free since the lost heir would be found. Now it seemed that time was against her, and fight the fatalism as she might, she knew that Mehrunes would never rest while she held his artifact. It was part of his identity and power supply, so such a matter would never be dropped. She might have forgotten the imminent threat to her life when she was meeting with Arelius and hunting down information like in her old life, but she had never been safe.

_You won't be until the Dragonfires return_.

Even then, the prince wouldn't stop, and could she outrun him for years, for the rest of her life? Well, she probably wouldn't live to be old, but when someone figured out what was best to do with the sphere, she wouldn't be expected to keep it. Then perhaps she would be free, but vengeance seemed a common and favorite hobby of daedric princes, which meant that there was no complete escape for her.

Hell, she sat up and swung her legs out of bed. She could do this because she had to, and because there was no one else. She had defied the prince before, and she could do it again, even if his death grip on her would slowly tighten until one of them was either killed or severely injured, and he couldn't be killed. _But he can be tricked and trapped_, Portia reminded herself, and she rationalized that he had to find her first. Would he find her here?

Her face suddenly paled, and she roughly stood, knowing that it was not just her life that was endangered. Arelius, Lucretia, the children—living with them might bring Mehrunes' wrath upon the entire house, and she would never live with herself if such a thing happened. Gods, but one man's eyes had haunted her for years, so what would losing an entire family do to her? She'd probably never crawl out of the filth that such an event would propel her toward, and there would be no Arelius to save her. The death of his family would be on her head.

Portia leaned against the window frame and stared outside. It was early morning, and the sun was just beginning to rise. Such a beautiful time of day, and here she stood, numbed to the core by what might come. This was not how a Blade should act, or so part of her said, but she didn't know if there was proper conduct for a situation like hers. Lives were potentially in her hands, and whether or not she liked it, she had to act beyond herself in that she could not simply hide. For one, Arelius would never allow it, and two, she had more pride than that. She had vowed that she'd where the earring as a sign of her unbroken will, and giving in now seemed pointless. Even as worry assaulted her, she was beginning to feel calm again, controlled and thinking about the best direction to take. She doubted whether she could ever let herself bend and break without a fight, for it just wasn't in her; it never had been, and she'd always made her own decisions, even the bad ones.

Coming to a conclusion, Portia stood and exited her room, her feet leading her toward the master bedroom. Arelius had an office next to his room, and she knew that he'd be there soon, for he was an early riser. She only had to wait, and since she was certain that she wouldn't be able to sleep anymore, there was no harm in loitering. Of course, the room was probably locked...

She gripped the door's handle and pushed, but it wouldn't budge, so she moved to the bedroom and knocked. It was rude to wake him this early, especially since his wife was also inside, but convention be damned. He would want to hear this, and she had to tell someone as soon as possible.

_Portia, you don't even know if Mehrunes is in the capitol,_ but she had a strong feeling that he was. The strong pulse that she had felt last night had been compelling evidence, and...

"Who's there?" a voice called from behind the door.

"Portia, and I'm sorry, but we need to talk." The door was pulled open, and there stood Arelius in nothing but breeches and with a sword in his hand. He gazed at her with concerned eyes, and she could see Lucretia behind him, sitting in bed, and curiously watching the scene unfold.

"What's wrong?" Arelius asked, prepared to kill any intruders.

"He's here," Portia stated, and Arelius's face tensed.

"Arelius," Lucretia called. She was getting out of bed and wrapping a robe around herself. "I'll be outside."

"No," he soothed. "Stay here, love; we'll go to the office. Portia," and he motioned her out of the room. They moved into the next room, Arelius setting his sword down on his desk as Portia stood, arms crossed over her chest in a bleak mood. "What do mean, 'he's here'?" Arelius asked, equally concerned considering his Blade's behavior.

"I felt something strange yesterday," Portia explained. "It was powerful, whatever it was. So I went to bed early, took a sleeping draught to make sure that everything was okay, and I tried to find him."

"Mehrunes Dagon," Arelius darkly contemplated.

"Yes, but I couldn't find him. I never told you this, but whenever I enter Oblivion, I appear where he is. It's like there's some sort of draw between the chaos spheres, but last night...he was gone. He's not in Oblivion." Arelius's face was taut in concentrated thought as Portia waited to see what he'd say. He couldn't take the sphere from her yet, and there was no solid evidence for her words, but she knew that he believed her by his pause. He always took time to consider important issues before making decisions.

"And you think that he's here, in the capitol?" Arelius asked.

"I can't be sure," Portia admitted. "It's simply a feeling that I have. I could try using the sphere to find him, but I'm afraid that he'd sense it."

"If he is here, and he knew where you were, I'm sure that he'd have tried something already," Arelius reasoned. "He's not known for holding himself back, but how sure are you that he's free?"

"I'm certain that he's in Tamriel."

"I'll find out if anyone has seen anything," Arelius promised. "Until then, there isn't much that we can do, especially without knowing where in Tamriel he is. Keep your eyes and ears open." He walked behind his desk and removed a skeleton key from the top drawer. "This is a key to a small mausoleum near the doors to the Temple District. It's stocked with food, water, and weapons. If you ever need a place to hide, use it." He passed her the key, and Portia ran a thumb over its smooth, worn surface.

"Perhaps I should stay there from now on," she suggested. "If I am found here, I wouldn't want anyone in your family to be harmed." Arelius smiled knowingly, and placed a kind hand over hers, forcing her fingers to wrap around the key. He was doing his fatherly act again, and Portia gave a small smile despite herself. "You're going to tell me that I'm being foolish," she guessed.

"No," Arelius countered. "You are being cautious, but I would like you to stay here where you are more protected. There are two other Blades here, and my wife can be quite brutal when she wishes. If he is in the city, you are safer here for the time being, and we don't even know if he's here. I won't have you sleeping in a tomb when he could be anywhere. The entire Blade network will be looking for signs of him, and in the meantime, you shouldn't let this trouble you." Portia didn't believe him as he removed his hand from hers. "If the situation becomes dangerous, I will send the children away, but Lucretia will never agree to go. Sometimes you have to allow other people to accept risks, Portia. If anything happens, you can't shoulder all the blame. Death happens."

"If worse comes to worse, I will leave," she told him.

"We'll discuss it when it happens," Arelius argued. "You are to continue with your work at the palace, and if I have any further assignments for you, I'll send them along, but no more night work for now. Until we know if he's here, it's too risky."

"Alright," Portia agreed.

"I will be back shortly—before you leave for work. There is something safer that I might require your work for tonight, so look for me in about thirty minutes."

"I'll be here waiting." The two left the office, which Arelius securely locked behind them, and Portia made her way downstairs for some food. Considering that her life might be hanging by a thread, the day was remarkably normal, with servants bustling to and fro, and Arelius's sons causing a commotion in one of the side rooms. A servant was standing at a table in the kitchen, rolling out dough on the massive wooden surface, and Lucretia was chatting with the young girl. Portia smiled as she entered the room and helped herself to a cup of tea.

"I'm sorry for the disturbance," she apologized to her hostess.

"It was nothing," Lucretia assured. "After you've been forced out of bed at knifepoint, your intrusion was minor." Portia wondered when the beautiful woman had been manhandled, and then she imagined Arelius beating someone's face in for the offense.

"Do you need anything, ma'am?" the servant asked.

"No, I can get everything myself." The servant glanced questioningly at Lucretia, and the woman merely smiled and shook her head.

"That's how she is," the Imperial explained.

"That's right," Portia echoed, allowing the scene to wipe away her current problems.

"I was actually meaning to speak with you," Lucretia stated. "This arrived for you a few moments ago, although I am surprised that it was sent so late. They probably did not have an address for you." She held out a sealed letter, and Portia accepted the creamy envelope with interest. It bore the wax seal of the royal court, and with a quick flick, she unfolded it to find herself looking at an invitation.

"There's a ball tonight?" Portia asked.

"Oh yes. It's an annual event, and the council is trying to keep up appearances. Most people don't realize how bad the situation surrounding the assassinations is, and so they don't want the populace to panic. There will also be some visiting dignitaries."

"I wasn't expecting an invitation," Portia confessed. "I suppose that you're going."

"Of course," she smiled. "And you should too. I imagine that you've been invited due to your position, because it's a very important station, and from what I've heard, you have the respect of many noblemen for it."

"I've never been one for balls," Portia stated. "I've never even been to one before."

"It will be an experience, I assure you," Lucretia promised. "You deserve to enjoy an evening off, and I'll speak to Arelius if I need to." Portia stared at the elegant calligraphy spreading across the paper in her hands, and considered Lucretia's words, but it was difficult to contemplate fun when an angry daedric prince was chasing her.

"I'll think about it."

*********

"There's a party tonight," Arelius stated as he watched Tamil doing pushups. She was obviously in a great deal of pain, but her arms worked up and down with unsteady determination. "There will be several new diplomats arriving, and I know nothing about most of them. Are you up to the assignment?" Since the assassinations, the Blades were keeping tabs on everyone entering the palace, for the Mythic Dawn was rooting for information on the last heir, and there might be an attempt by them to gain influence among any disgruntled elite. Arelius didn't want them to gain influence in politics at all, especially if they might be targeting certain council members who were instrumental in reserving the throne for the heir when he was found.

"I don't know," Tamil stated, letting her body collapse onto the floor. She slowly sat up and leaned against the wall, her legs spread out across the carpet. Her red eyes narrowed as she placed a hand to her still healing wound, and then she sighed. "I won't be up to speed," she confessed. "Damned poison! There's no way that I'll blend in and be able to dance. Lady Drothmino will not be able to make an appearance."

"You'll be back to work in no time," Arelius told her. "But not if you keep abusing your body. You need to heal."

"I need to keep busy or I'll go insane," she bitterly countered. "So who's going to be my replacement? I'm sure that Lucretia is going."

"Yes, but she has other duties tonight."

"So, who's going? Portia?"

"I'm considering it." Tamil nodded and struggled to rise. Arelius offered her a hand, but she pointedly ignored it, and instead opted to steady herself with the wall.

"She'll do a good job. I'm sure she's more polite than I am." Arelius smiled as he moved toward the door.

"That she is. It's a good thing that we Imperials consider Dunmer from Morrowind to be less polished, or you would have no excuse." Tamil snorted derisively, and Arelius had the urge to make a smart comment but kept it to himself instead. Tamil was touchy about slanders against Morrowind. "I'll see that your position is covered, and Tamil?"

"Sir?"

"Be careful and watch the house. The Prince of Oblivion is loose." Arelius left Tamil to finish her morning workout as he sought out Portia, knowing that the woman would not be pleased with her newest assignment. She had never favored social tasks that involved the upper class, but she had the confidence to pull it off, and because she taught swordsmanship, people wouldn't expect her to be the most delicate lady. This would work, so now he only had to convince her to accept, which wouldn't be difficult.

He found her in the kitchen with Lucretia, and was pleased to see that the women were friendly, for living in a house with women who did not get along was a job even he feared. His boots hit the last step, and Lucretia smiled warmly, giving him a soft nod that was reserved only for him. She had ways of making even the smallest gestures seem special, and so the affectionate kiss that he landed on her cheek as he swept into the room was entirely genuine and adoring. Portia was busy eating a pastry and reading over a letter, so she missed his uncharacteristic, romantic display, but he'd pull her from her thoughts soon enough.

"Anything interesting?" he asked her, and Portia frowned.

"A ball," she stated. "Someone who wasn't thinking sent me an invitation." Good. So he wouldn't need to sneak her into the party. That made his task simpler.

"She can't decide whether she's going or not," Lucretia explained. "But I told her she should."

"Oh, she'll be going," Arelius smiled, and Portia turned displeased eyes on him.

"There is work to be done there?" He nodded, and she set the letter aside.

"I need you to keep an eye on several new faces—see who they converse with and what they're like. You have good intuition when it comes to people, so I want to know what you think of them." He passed her a list of several names, and Portia read it over. "I would have asked someone else, but you're most convenient."

"As always," Portia grumbled, and Lucretia smiled behind her hand. "Isn't Lucretia going?"

"Ah, but there is more to my life than socializing," the woman explained. "I will be there if you need help though."

"And what am I going to wear? I don't have anything fancy enough for this." Lucretia exchanged a conspiratorial glance with her husband that Portia distinctly did not like.

"You don't honestly think that I overlooked that," Arelius said.

"Okay, but I can't dance."

"I can show you," Lucretia offered. "And I will lend you a gown. Would you also like me to find you a date?" Portia sighed and tossed the letter aside, thinking about what she had gotten herself into this time. A date. A date. Who...?

"No, I have someone who will go with me, and he's quite charming to boot."

"Then it's settled," Arelius said. "Enjoy your evening, ladies." He had work to do, and Portia had dancing to learn. It would be a busy day, and so Portia sent a hasty letter to the Arcane University, asking Gilthan if he'd attend with her. She was sure that he'd say yes as Lucretia began tutoring her. The woman and her husband were finding this entire situation far too amusing for her liking.


	14. Chapter 14: Have We Met Before?

And the moment that everyone has been waiting for!!!!!! I hope that it lives up to expectations, and thanks for all the reviews. I was so excited by how many came in for the last chapter, but I guess that's only natural since thing's are about to heat up between the two.

As always, enjoy!

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Chapter 13:

"I am ready when you are, my lord," Horace stated, standing in the doorway to Mehrunes' chambers. The prince sat reclined in a seat by the window, wine glass in hand, sipping at the liquid as he ran probing eyes over the streets outside. He seemed to do that often, as if there was somewhere that he wanted to go but could not for some reason, and Horace would never ask what it was. Instead, he stood waiting to be acknowledged, knowing that rushing Mehrunes was futile and might even annoy the prince. The daedra was clearly used to doing things at his own pace and choosing.

"Do you know of anyone that might be of use to us?" the man asked, turning his black eyes on Horace, who hated their abnormally piercing quality. The prince must had sensed his host's discomfort, for the edges of his lips barely twitched upward while he stood and smoothed the front of his tunic. It was a beautiful outfit consisting of an intricately woven, dark-blue top and black breeches with gold stitching, which the prince wore like he was a king. Well, he was a king in Oblivion, and the persona that was so naturally his own would suit him equally well for his false identity as a diplomat.

"There are several people attending tonight that you might interesting," Horace offered. "The Arch-Mage and several of his counsel will be there. If an artifact has arrived, they might well know of it, and there will also be a few nobles who are eyeing the vacant throne. They might cooperate if given incentives."

"Excellent," Mehrunes replied, pulling on tall, leather boots that reached his knees. "Let's go. I'm sick of wasting time."

"As you wish." Mehrunes took one last glance in the mirror before he pulled back his black hair, exposing the chaos sphere on his right ear. It glowed hotly with the promise of its mate, and the prince gently touched it, almost caressing it. Soon. But it would not do to be seen with his favorite possession tonight, and so, with a wave of his hand, the sphere vanished from sight. It was still there, for he'd never leave it, but no one would know of its presence, and with that, he eagerly began his search of the city.

**********

Portia almost couldn't believe that she was looking at herself, for it had been a long time since she'd worn a dress. The last had been before her accident in the Blades, and it had been even longer since she'd had her hair fixed. The fact that she looked so elegant and felt comfortable at the same time was testament to Lucretia's skill at dressing for an occasion, and the woman sure did know how to treat her guests royally.

"Thank you," Portia said, examining herself more closely. The dress was a very light blue, and like the current fashion, it reached the tip of her toes without touching the floor. The bottom was wide, making her look as if she flowed when she walked, and the top was snug, hugging her hips and opening into a V-neck that hinted at her cleavage. Golden flowers decorated the edges of the gown, and a gold cord accented her waist, which would have been plenty for Portia, but Lucretia had insisted that she look her best, and so came the jewelry. Sapphires, rich and dark, dangled about her neck, and matching earrings sat on a nearby table, waiting to accompany it. Lucretia had even helped pull her hair black back into an intricate twist that allowed everyone a view what the hostess had deemed "an amazing neck".

"You'll fit right in," Lucretia approved. "Which is exactly what is needed to do this job correctly." She was dressed in a red, velvet gown, and stood eyeing the orange globe hanging from Portia's left ear. "I must leave now, but I shall see you in a short while. Are you sure that you don't want to accompany me?"

"Gilthan will be here in a moment," Portia said. "But thank you all the same."

"Until later then." Portia remained staring at the chaos sphere after Lucretia left, for she only had a few moments to reach a final decision. Wearing it might not be the best move, for everyone at the ball would notice it since it clashed with her outfit, and if anyone from the Mythic Dawn slipped inside...better not, she decided, slowly pulling the earring free for the first time since she'd acquired it. She cradled it in her hand, deciding where to hide it, and finally opted for a decanter sitting atop the fireplace in her room. The silver jar was partly filled with water, and no one would think to look there for treasure. In such an odd place, the sphere would be safe until her return, and hopefully it was a pleasant mood that she returned in, but she had no idea how the evening would progress.

"Ma'am?" a servant called through the door. "Your escort is here. Um, sir, you shouldn't be up here. She'll be down in...Well, I never!" Portia turned as her door was thrown wide open, and in walked Gilthan, strikingly handsome in a white outfit that made him look like the dashing mage that he was. His light hair was neatly combed, and his golden features broke out in a grin when he saw Portia, who was already smiling from listening to his harassment of the maid.

"Portia, you are stunning!" he exclaimed, seizing her hand and sweeping it upward toward his lips for a kiss.

"Good evening to you too, Gilthan," she smiled, unsure what it was about this elf that made her feel lighter than her circumstances. "Are you ready?"

"Of course, but I must warn you that Traven will be there, and he'll have his eye on you." Portia frowned, thinking, but Gilthan interrupted her. "He won't ruin our evening, I assure you. He can't do anything in public anyway. Just don't let him back you into a corner."

"It's not that," Portia confessed, pulling him further into the room. "I've been waiting to tell you this all day, but I couldn't send it in the letter." Gilthan grew serious as she related the change in Oblivion and her belief of where Mehrunes was, leaving the elf quiet and concerned.

"Don't seek him out with the sphere," he warned. "It might give away your location."

"I guessed as much," Portia replied. "And if I'm less attentive tonight, it's because I'm worried that the Mythic Dawn might have someone at the party, looking for me." Gilthan did not know that she was a Blade, and while Portia didn't object to telling him, she saw no reason to add to his mental musings. Blade business was secret, even to family and friends, and for good reasons, even if she trusted Gilthan. The risks of putting him in danger or causing a leak were too great.

"My lady, you've ruined the night already," Gilthan complained, breaking the tension. "But let's try to have some fun. I'll show you how this ball thing is supposed to be done, all right? I remember my first ball..." And he wound a story while Portia laughed at his easy candor, arm looped through his as they made their way to the palace. The lights and sound were apparent before the actually guests came into view, and as Portia stepped through the brightly lit archway that led into the ballroom, she felt as if she'd entered a fairytale. Laughter, food, drink, dancing, ladies and men in their finest, a white, vaulted ceiling that sparkled with the shifting of hundreds of magical, sparkling orbs that floated about the room—it was dazzling but bittersweet, for it was an illusion of a perfect world that did not exist. Portia could not forget why she was here.

"What do you think?" Gilthan asked as they showed their invitation to a guard and were ushered inside.

"It's lovely," Portia breathed, "But I'm glad that this isn't my life."

"And how can you say that?"

"You can't curse while swinging back some ale." Gilthan laughed as they moved into the crowd, the dancing contained to the center of the colonnaded room, and the orchestra at the far end. Refreshment tables dotted the edges of the dance floor, and people milled about speaking and greeting, dresses in every color brushing across the floor, and men discussing the dresses, and the occasional guard coming into view as they discreetly patrolled the party. Portia took it all in, both recognizing how pretty it was, but partly losing that fact in the piles of information that she was gathering. She was here to work as well as enjoy the experience, and so she spied, but while she saw to her duties, she returned each smile and greeting as required.

"Ah, you must be the new sword instructor," a man nodded in approval.

"She's a fighter?" a woman asked, surprised. "You'd never guess by looking at her."

"A killer on the field and the dance floor, perhaps."

"Greetings, ma'am. It's lovely to see you here." The lines went on and on, with Gilthan periodically leaning down toward her ear to make random, humorous observations on some of the guests, many of whom he knew one way or another. Apparently he'd accidently set one of the younger men over there on fire.

"Do you dance?" Gilthan asked her, eager to join in the mass of spinning bodies.

"Hmmm?" Portia asked, looking away from a large gathering to her left. "Oh, yes, but don't expect me to be the most graceful one out there." Before she could say anything else, Gilthan had swept her away, his feet turning and taking her with him. He was an excellent lead, so she had little difficulty in following him, and as the movements became easier, she began to indulge in the revelry about her. Still, every turn, she tried to get a closer view of the group that she had seen earlier.

"What's going on over there?" she asked.

"A new diplomat arrived from Morrowind," Gilthan explained. "And these people always swamp the latest visitor, especially when he's rich, handsome, and influential, or so I've been told."

"How do you know so much already?" Portia asked, truly curious.

"I've been eavesdropping on the couple next to us," he grinned, a twinkle in his eye. Portia shook her head and then laughed as Gilthan flamboyantly dipped her at the end of the song. The music stilled, and her laughter carried across the area around her, drawing several quick glances from the surrounding people, plus gossip from an older group of women. No doubt they thought that they were witnessing a budding romance, but the real reason for the laughter was that Portia had nearly knocked Gilthan over by throwing her weight in the wrong direction when they came up from the dip.

"I'm going to grab some wine and say hello to a few people," he told her. "I hope that you don't mind. I don't want to get a reputation as a bad date."

"Not at all. I'll survive," Portia assured him, for she had taken an interest in this new diplomat. She had to make sure that she met him, because if he was the man that she thought it was, he was on her list to investigate. She made her way over to the small crowd, gently excusing herself as she moved for a closer view of the two men at the center of attention, and pausing when she was near them. One was an Imperial, tall with classic black hair and brown eyes, and he gestured and spoke sweetly to the people around them, beginning his introduction of the man to his right, and it was that man that drew Portia's attention the most.

He wasn't necessarily an Imperial, but he came close with his rich, raven colored hair and tall, strong physique that was slighter than a Nord's but not thin like an elf's. He was handsome, she decided, with slender, tanned features and an air of command that she felt even though he was not looking at her. Something about him struck her as familiar, but she could not describe the quality that she found so alluring and even a bit worrisome. Either way, she did not think that this was a man to fool, for each person to whom he was introduced was met by a piercing stared that left certain women blushing and others shying away. This was a man who knew how to control those around him, and that made him someone whom Arelius would be interested in.

"This is Lady Westerin," the typical Imperial was saying.

"Yes, a pleasure, sir," she greeted the darker one. "And I must ask: are the rumors about Red Mountain being cleansed true?" Portia found herself moving a bit closer as the man answered, his voice deep and steady. It was the type of voice that could lull you into sleep with its rhythmic qualities.

"It's been returned to its former state for some time," he was saying, one hand brushing a stray strand of black hair back over his head.

"How interesting!" the woman smiled, clearly impressed by the man. "I also hear that there are few Imperial women in the courts there, so I suggest you get your fill while you're here, sir. I trust that I will be seeing..."

"Lady Augustine!" Portia's attention was snatched from the conversation as a man that was part of the group recognized her. The older gentleman smiled pleasantly at her as he helped himself to another pastry (which he didn't need if his bulging waistline was any indication). "My son's progress has been remarkable thanks to your instruction. Here, have you met our newest guest? And I don't think that you've met Horace Pantrov either. Horace, dear boy!" Portia suddenly found numerous eyes shifting toward her, and one set in particular moved over her with an unsettling force that felt almost physical, but she did not turn toward that individual, however tempting. Rather, she took her time and politely focused on the man to whom she was being introduced.

"Horace, this is Lady Portia Augustine, the sword instructor," the nobleman beside her was saying. "She's simply amazing. You wouldn't believe how skilled she is, and the boys pick up her lessons like nothing you've ever seen!"

"Good evening," Horace greeted, giving Portia a slight bow of his head, and Portia curtsied in response.

"A pleasure to meet you, sir," she responded, using the most complacent, feminine voice that she could muster. She was, after all, here to blend in and watch, not be questioned for bold behavior. "I've heard good things about your work in the palace," she continued, but her smile slipped when the man's eyes dipped down to her bust line, and so she couldn't resist letting a subtle reprimand slide from her lips. "You're said to have _impeccable_ manners." The man's eyes rapidly shot up to her face, and he gave her a smile like oil on water.

"It depends on the occasion, ma'am. Allow me to introduce you to Cassius Matrino, my friend from Morrowind, and a prominent diplomat in that land." Now she could not avoid looking at the man's guest, and as her green eyes met black, a spark shot through her that warned of danger, but she could find no reason for it. The pure depth of the man's eyes startled her, and the longer she stared into them, the more she felt as if she were being pulled away from herself. It was a sensation that was familiar, yet she did not let it show. With a straight face, she curtsied and gave the man a small smile in greeting.

"Sir," she said. "I hope that you enjoy your stay here." Her voice seemed to have triggered a reaction in him, for as their eyes met a second time, his countenance noticeably changed. It was subtle—a faint curl of his lip that oddly enough, almost looked like the beginnings of a snarl, but more than that, his stare drove a hole straight through Portia's chest, for his eyes burned with an anger that she could not fathom, almost as if she had done him some terrible, unforgivable wrong. It was nonsensical, she knew, but that blaze was solely directed at her. It would have even made her shudder if she hadn't already steeled her nerves to deal with this stranger, and so she held herself steady, not knowing if she refused to break the stare because she wouldn't be cowed or if his personality commanded her utmost attention. Why did she feel that she knew this man?

"Lady Augustine," Cassius allowed, stance returning to its polite demeanor, but Portia felt the embers smoldering within him, and as he reached out and took her hand, she wanted nothing more than to rip it away from him. He planted a kiss on her skin, his lips warm on her flesh, and when he straightened, he appeared completely at ease to the point where she almost questioned whether he had appeared angry at all.

"Have we met before?" Portia asked, convinced that they had.

"I don't believe so," he replied in that hypnotic voice. "I am certain that I'd never forget a face like yours." Portia pulled her hand away from him and was ready to find Gilthan when Horace spoke to her.

"How good are you with a blade?" he asked her.

"Stop by the yard sometime and find out," she challenged. He nodded with a smile and lifted his glass of wine in a salute to her.

"A worthy opponent then, and I trust that you will forgive my earlier forwardness." This was a man with a silver tongue for sure, for his smile was so endearing, and his words so suiting that Portia almost wanted to accept that he was as decent a man as they came, if not a bit of playboy, but she told herself to be careful. Neither of these men sat well with her, even if she had no reason to suspect them of anything. Sometimes it was enough to simply get a feel for someone, and that could speak a million words about what that person might or might not do. Still, chances were that they were completely harmless to the empire, if not the people directly around them.

"If you will excuse me gentleman," she said. "My date is probably searching for me." As if on cue, Gilthan came bounding over to her, a glass of wine for her in his hand.

"For you, beautiful," he said, and Portia happily accepted the gift. "In return for my long delay. I hope that you weren't bored to tears. Ah, Horace Pantrov," he said, attention shifting. "We meet again, and you look more relaxed this time."

"Yes," Horace shrugged. "I do not have pressing business today." Portia wondered where the two had met, and as Gilthan swept her back onto the dance floor, he explained everything. A daedra heart? Portia stole glances at the Imperial as she was passed between several men, Gilthan always reclaiming her after he was done flirting with someone else. She definitely did not trust Horace or his friend, whoever he was.

*************

It was her. Mehrunes Dagon was almost certain that he recognized the voice of the woman being introduced to Horace, and he mulled over the possibility as the two spoke. The woman was certainly beautiful in her light blue and sapphires, and the slope of her neck drew his male mind toward her body, Mehrunes paying special attention to every detail of this female. He wanted to know if he was incredibly fortunate or imagining things, for it was hard to tell since he had last seen the thief splattered with blood and otherwise filthy from being held in the dungeons. He hunted for some telling sign—something that would make or break his suspicions, and so intent was he on studying the line of her jaw, that he nearly missed being introduced to the very object of his interest.

"Sir," and she curtsied, putting herself in a position that would have made it so simple for him to reach out and snap her neck, but he did not. Mehrunes watched as she straightened, and her eyes struck his like flint, an immediate spark surging through him. Perhaps it was the determination in her forest green irises, but he recognized the same spirited nature that had sustained her during Oblivion's torture sessions, and now that this thief faced him head on, there was no denying that he knew her. It _was_ her.

For a moment, he could not speak lest he completely give himself away, for he was sure that some aggressive comment or otherwise dominating behavior would be exposed if he had to interact with her before regaining control of himself. But it would be so simple to grab and shake her, carry her outside where he could force her to talk with his persuasive methods, and oh, would he ever be persuasive. Blood—sweet and filled with the victory of his vengeance—would run through his hands, making her his as he'd said he would, and teaching her the lesson that she so rightly deserved. His rage was showing, he knew, for he had never been good at concealing it, and because of that, he half expected this woman to run, but she did not.

To her credit, she remained firm, even as Horace was questioningly eyeing his master's obvious lack of control. This did not look good, but Mehrunes did not care. He would die to make an example of this woman right in the middle of this party for all to see. Strange, that she barely flinched as he reached for her hand, for he could sense her concern, even if her face betrayed nothing. The pulse in her wrist quickened as he brought the limb to his lips, and two of his nails lightly trailed over one throbbing vein, teasingly, knowing that pain would be so easy to inflict. His body touched hers for the first time in over a month, although he was unsure of why he made the gentle gesture when he was so angry.

No, he knew why. Looking into her eyes flared his bloodlust, for they made him remember the indignant rage that he had seen in their depths before she tore his ear, and if could distract himself for but a moment, he would regain enough control to not throttle her right this instant. _Very admirable, human_, he admitted as he lowered her hand and she continued to hold his gaze. She was as brave as he had suspected, and the same self-possessed strength as before sustained her as she calmly turned away from him. The action pleased Mehrunes, for it was clear that this would not be an easy woman to intimidate, and her control almost impressed him. Perhaps she had even been worthy to steal from a daedric prince, and if she had been a dremora, he would have already promoted her to highest ranks for displaying such audacity and will.

_Portia Augustine_, Mehrunes mused, the name implanting itself in his mind, _and she is looking for her date_. The anger within him was barely contained as he watched her laugh at the elf that had joined her. An Altmer—part of an arrogant, magic-wielding race that wouldn't know a good ax if they saw one. He wanted to snort at her choice of companion, but kept his opinion silent as he very blatantly watched her, for he could not do otherwise. She was here, barely five feet away from him, and she had no idea who he was, which made it very tempting to trick her into accompanying him somewhere. Once alone, he could tear and rip, and—hell, but to let her walk away from him right now was taking more self-control than he would have given himself credit for, and he could not stop staring as her hips sauntered back onto the dance floor.

That was his prey out there being passed from man to man like she hadn't a care in the world and was free for the taking. The anger briefly boiled anew at the thought of her being so happy, for she had no right to be happy, and since she dared to be so, he would take it from her. But the anger again cooled as he studied her, almost feeling familiar with the vibes that she sent through the air, but that was impossible. He had no reason to feel as if her presence were familiar, and he was more concerned with the fact that she wasn't wearing the chaos sphere. If she had lost or entrusted it to the Arcane University, it would be more difficult to reclaim.

"You seem to have an interest in the teacher," Horace commented, trying to interest Mehrunes in the people around them to no avail. "She is here almost every morning if you've some reason to approach her," he continued, but he didn't see anything special in the woman. Surely, if the prince wanted to sate certain desires, there were better choices.

"Do you know anything about her?" Mehrunes asked, eyes taking in every turn and step of the female Imperial as she moved. Once or twice, her eyes landed on him, but she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze for more than a few seconds. As if her dance partners were more important! _Stay calm as a prince should_, but Mehrunes could not stand being treated as if he were a secondary object of interest. He felt as if his anger should be radiating with such force that it could physically affect her, causing her to either flee in terror or at least pay attention to him. Infuriating woman!

"If you continue to glare at her, people are going to wonder if the two of you have a history," Horace quietly warned.

"Let them think whatever they want, mortal," Mehrunes countered, but he relaxed his stare. "Find out everything that you can about her. She knows far more than she gives away."

"As you wish," Horace obediently answered, although he did not see the point in this. "There are several men that I'd like you to meet, if you're interested..."

"They can wait," Mehrunes cut him off. He caught Portia watching him as she laughed at another of the elf's comments, and she did not turn away as quickly as she might have. Their eyes lingered on one another, and Mehrunes could take it no longer. He couldn't play spectator as the one person that he wanted to destroy most in this world gallivanted like a girl, although she was hardly a girl. No, that woman had sharp eyes, for he saw how she watched everyone around her, and the way that her hand shifted toward her waist whenever someone unexpectedly bumped into her...did she have a knife tucked into that beautiful dress?

_You'll live in fear, thief._

Mehrunes began walking on an uncontrollable crash course toward her dancing form. One moment she was with a man old enough to be her grandfather, and the next she was unwittingly faced with a daedric prince.

"I'm cutting in," Mehrunes told the older man, and he did not even ask permission, but swept Portia into a dancing position with him, his hand landing none too gently on her waist before he reminded himself that she did not know who he was. That might be best for the time being, so even though he wanted nothing more than to reveal himself and watch her eyes light up with fear, he would bide his time. She obviously lived in the capitol and wasn't going anywhere.

"Hello again, Cassius," she said, body tense in his hold. His hand was resting on her right hip, and if he pressed a little, he could imagine the feel of the scar, his symbol, beneath the dress. Applying pressure, he was pleased to see that she did not flinch at the pain that the action must have been causing, and he soon relented, not wanting to make her more wary of him than she already was. Time was on his side now. "You have been watching me for some time," she told him. "I did not think that my dancing was that spectacular," she tried to joke, easing into his hands now that they were moving like any other couple on the floor.

"I find your ladyship to be most captivating," he told her, sounding as casual as he could given the circumstances, and he pulled her closer to his body.

"I hope that you're not as terrible a flatterer as your friend over there," she warned, and now she seemed much more at ease. Perhaps because his anger had receded and he was being gentler with her, although there was a strength to his grip that would prevent her from leaving his grasp if she tried.

"Horace and I do not have much in common," Mehrunes confided. "Although we appreciate some of the same values." Portia nodded and smiled as he pulled her into a quick spin, and with a touch of sarcastic contemplation, Mehrunes realized that he was no longer bored. The earlier mingling had been interesting at times, but not engaging like this. To have ignorant but worthy prey in his hands to dispose of as he pleased was gratifying in a way that made him anticipate the next stage of the hunt. Poor Portia had no idea that she was dancing with her death.

"So what brings you to Morrowind?" she asked, trying to divert the intensity that his silence placed her under. The way her eyes hardened themselves whenever they locked gazes clued Mehrunes into the studious and cautionary way that she was handling him. She wasn't stupid—that was certain, but then again, he hadn't expected her to be.

"It has been a long time since I came home," he told her. "I thought it time to see the Imperial city again."

"So you are stationed a great distance away?"

"Yes." _You have no idea, woman_.

"And is your trip living up to expectations?"

"In more ways than you can imagine," Mehrunes smiled. He twirled her one last time, and offered her a small nod of his head as he decided that prolonging this game of cat and mouse might actually be worthwhile. He could not resist kissing her hand one more time either—just to feel the pulse in her wrist, letting him know that she was alive and his to kill. "I take my leave," he told her. "But I'm pleased to have finally met you." _Formally, that is_.

"Perhaps we shall meet again," she innocently offered.

"I'm quite sure that we shall," Mehrunes replied with a secretive smirk that caused Portia to inwardly waver, but to him, her face only took on a slightly more serious expression.

"Perhaps," she replied, and as that Altmer approached and wrapped an arm around her waist, Mehrunes did not want to leave. He did not want to see her so easily escape his seeking grasp, but she was away, and he was to meet Horace's contacts. It was strange, how as she drew further and further into the crowd, he almost tangibly felt her vanish from his senses, and there was Horace, eager to speak with him, and puzzled over his master's interest in the woman.

"I hope that you are not bored, Lord Cassius," Horace said, eyes seeking out Portia's retreating form.

"Not in the least," Mehrunes mused with an odd expression. "It has been more eventful than I anticipated. And now, where are these nobles that you think will be useful?"

"There, my lord," and Horace smiled as several women looked over Mehrunes' human body, clearly interested in this more exotic looking Imperial. "I daresay that you might have a choice tonight, if anyone catches your fancy." Oh, someone had, but she would not be his entertainment tonight, and neither would these women—at least not in the same way that he would use Portia. The night wore on, and he continued to look for her, but she was gone, never one to stay late at parties when she had to rise early.


	15. Chapter 15: Suspicious Admirers

Chapter 14:

_What a night._

Portia woke up in nothing but her underclothing as he rolled out of bed, her dress from the previous night neatly draped over a nearby chair. She had slept like the dead after hours of dancing, and there was also the fact that she wasn't wearing the chaos sphere. Such a restful night tempted her to never wear the earring to bed again, but she recognized a bad idea when she thought of one, and ignoring her connection to Mehrunes would only hurt her in the long run. At least she had an inkling of what he was up to when she wore the earring, and so she moved to the decanter and hooked the sphere back onto her left ear. It was brighter than usual, but she imagined that the prince might be seeking it, triggering its power.

She dressed in pants and a maroon tunic, choosing clothing that was durable for a day of teaching, for the boys practiced with real swords after initial training with wooden ones, and she had already had one decent tunic torn. She could still remember how ten pairs of young, male eyes widened when the rip exposed part of her bra, which had been rather comical, but she wouldn't want word of an incident like that getting around the palace. More people than ever would be able to put a face to her name after last night, and so gossip would not be so readily dismissed. Such a bother.

Portia's mind drifted back to the ball, and she mentally scanned over the list of people whom she'd consciously collected information on for Arelius. Most of them had seemed harmless enough, but she continually looped back to Cassius and Horace, who stood out as strangely compelling and even dangerous personalities—Cassius more so than Horace. The latter reminded her of a smooth talker who might cause trouble, but who was likely too busy burning his way through lovers to be involved in political upheaval. It was hard to gauge how influential such a minor but gifted nobleman was, and then there was his companion, and Portia again felt his hands on her, the left one pressing down on her right hip, applying pressure to her wound. Of course, Cassius couldn't have known what he'd been doing, but the coincidence still bothered Portia, igniting further suspicions against a man that she was already wary of.

When they had been dancing, she could have sworn that his eyes glinted with aggression, like a wolf closing in on its prey, but those had been fleeting expressions. More often was a curious look of satisfaction, and when he had pulled her close to his body for a pivot, she had found herself trapped in a gaze that seemed to burn across every inch of her body. The experience had been oddly captivating, demanding, and worrisome, yet she had not objected to his touch by the end of the dance. Yes, she had been relieved to leave him, but he had proven a capable dancer, and when she had scanned the room while turning, she could see that people were watching how the two moved so fluidly across the floor.

_"Oh look! They even match." _

And they had, which made Portia smile at the time, for she hadn't even realized that her light blue matched beautifully with his darker tunic. She wondered if Gilthan had been jealous, for when the elf had approached to retrieve her from her mysterious partner, he had seemed displeased and even a little put off by Cassius. Portia couldn't blame him, for she had arranged to take him as a date, not to end up being admired as she was with another man who treated Gilthan to the cold shoulder. Even when Gilthan had been bidding Cassius goodbye, the Imperial only had eyes for Portia, blatantly ignoring the elf in favor of lavishing Portia with attention that would have been flattering if the man hadn't emitted such dangerous vibes. Portia could even swear that he hadn't wanted to let her leave, which had disturbed her, for how could this man be so fixated on her when they'd only just met? And to add to her concerns, as she had walked away, she felt as if she were pulling away from a familiar presence—the same presence that had molded over her when they'd danced, making her feel almost at ease with someone who should have been a total stranger.

Portia was pondering the night as she made her way to Arelius's office to deliver a morning report before going to work, and sure enough, her superior stood by the window in his quarters, reading over a scroll in the fresh light of day. Portia had knocked, so he knew of her presence, but as always with Arelius, he did things in his own time, focusing on the more immediate problems before handling a routine report.

"Morning," he greeted her, finally setting the scroll aside and noticing that Portia was again wearing the chaos sphere. "The mages are hounding me to keep an eye on you at all times," he told her. _Straight to business it is then, sir. _

"I can think of a few colorful expressions that I'd like to tell them in response," she commented, a small smile tugging at her lips. Arelius mirrored the gesture and thanked the stars that his Blade was managing to maintain her spirits.

"They think that you're becoming more dangerous," he elaborated.

"Why? Have they had someone following me?" Arelius shook his head and took a seat at his desk, motioning for Portia to occupy the chair opposite him if she wished.

"They sensed a powerful charge several days ago, and they're convinced that it came from the chaos sphere. They also mentioned that you might be portraying erratic behavior, and I can promise you that the comment made me want to say things very similar to what you would have." He leaned forward, arms folded over the top of his desk, face serious. "To think that the university is trying to pull one over me on—as if I know less about your behavior than they do."

"They obviously don't know how annoyingly astute you are," Portia dryly commented, and Arelius barked a short laugh.

"Obviously not," he echoed. "But it does show that they are not being very successful at spying on you. Either that or they have a reason to rush the situation and try and take the sphere from us." _From the Blades_, Portia noted, realizing that Arelius now considered the sphere to be an Imperial possession and not for the Arcane University.

"Are you baiting them along just in case we need them?" she asked, curious, and Arelius eyed her like a proud father.

"Exactly, and I realize that you're friendly with one of their mages, but I trust that you're being discreet."

"Naturally," and Portia took the seat that he'd offered. She was surprised when her superior gently leaned back with a satisfied slip of a smile and watched her crossing her legs.

"Did you have a good time last night?" he asked, and Portia was instantly on guard.

"Why?" she challenged.

"I'll take that as a yes," Arelius finished for her, clearly amused with himself. "You've always avoided work like that. You used to claim that it's less useful and enjoyable, but if you wouldn't object, I might have future assignments along the same lines as the ball." Portia scrunched her face and wondered how much Lucretia had been watching her and how much she'd already reported to her husband. The two were thick as thieves.

"It was better than I expected," she confessed, knowing that lying to Arelius was pointless, and she didn't know if that made her want to hit him or not. Although, hitting him was probably an idiotic idea, for he might be passing the prime of his life, but she was willing to bet that he could still school her. "As far as your men and women of interest go," she continued, getting to business, "You can ignore most of them. Duke Lenicon seems a bit too ambitious for his own good, but other than that, I'd focus your attentions on Cassius Matrino and Horace Pantrov."

"Lenicon was investigated several months back for conspiracy and murder, so I'm not surprised that you singled him out. The verdict was indecisive, but I'm sure that he's the one that let the first Dawn member into the palace." Portia snapped to attention in surprise, having never heard of this incident. "You weren't with us when this happened," Arelius clarified. "And it was the type of mess that I hate most—one that puts everyone into a panic. The first assassin failed, but he'd been given free access to the inner chambers, and there's no way that he knew those hallways like the back of his hand without some help."

"So you're already watching him, but what about Cassius and Horace?" Portia asked, proceeding to explain how unsettling Cassius was and her misgivings about Horace.

"Unfortunately I don't know anything about those two," Arelius confessed, "But that's why I asked you to look into them. It's interesting that you noticed Horace, because he seems to have also noticed you."

"What?"

"Lucretia noted that he asked some questions about you last night—not to her directly, but she was in the vicinity when he sent out a few feelers. They were innocent questions, but those are the kind to worry about most."

"I had no idea that he thought enough about me to ask questions," Portia darkly mused, now more concerned about the two diplomats than ever. Perhaps she should not wear the chaos sphere to work either, for she wasn't sure that she wanted to risk running into people who were taking notes on her. "Hopefully he was just being a playboy and scouting for a possible lay," she stated.

"Still, be careful. I have someone looking for openings to learn more about the two, but that will take direct contact and talking."

"That's the possible work that you might have for me?" Portia guessed.

"Yes," Arelius nodded. "And since Horace has taken an interest in you, you'd make an ideal candidate. Let's hope that he likes you." Portia didn't agree, but she could see how that would be beneficial, and then she remembered Cassius's intense interest in her.

"I think that it would be fairly easy to arrange getting closer to the two," she said. "Cassius openly said that he'd like to see me again, and unlike Horace, he made no effort to hide how interested he was. It makes no sense, sir."

"Two admirers in one night," Arelius said with a hint at teasing. "And you used to be considered the hopeless, eternal maiden of the Blades."

"Thanks for reminding me," Portia scoffed, standing and dismissing herself this time. "Let me know when you'd like me to move in, or am I operating on my own?"

"On your own for now. If you can arrange something before I do, you've permission to move at your own discretion."

"Yes, sir." _Damn that man to Oblivion for his detailed memory_, or so Portia cursed as she left Arelius's office. She had been teased mercilessly about being single one drinking night long ago, for her comrades had been trying to set her up with someone who she staunchly refused to meet given that she had been a new recruit and didn't want to appear distracted. It hadn't helped that she'd been attracted to her captain and focused on winning his good graces either, and she suspected that Arelius's humor stemmed more from that knowledge than the good humored taunts of her friends. Oh well. Life went on, and she had a job to do.

*************

The training yard was scattered with sparring partners, the boys having been matched to one another based on their abilities, and then left to battle with dull swords as Portia watched from the sidelines. Intervention was constant and reprimands swift and loud, just as she had once experienced, and she found that pressure to perform was serving most of the boys well, for it pushed their natural competitiveness toward progress. She thought herself a good teacher as she watched one of her pupils successfully block several attacks before advancing, smacking his opponent squarely on a lightly armored shoulder. The slower kid would be sporting a bruise within the hour, but serious accidents were extremely rare in such training exercises, and Portia was pleased that she'd avoided any incidents thus far. She did not want or need an angry mother in here berating her for negligence that would most certainly be undeserved criticism.

"Keep a firmer grip on your sword!" she ordered one boy, who would have already been disarmed if he were facing a stronger opponent. She continued to scan the fighting as her feet began strolling along the shaded walkway that enclosed the yard, which allowed her to gain a better perspective on the exercises. It was a normal habit for a teacher, and the day seemed perfectly average until another presence began to press against her own, subconsciously alerting her to company. It was as she rounded a corner that she saw him, leaning against the wall as casually as a man could, dark gaze fixed on the pair of fighters closest to him. In the shade of the walkway and positioned behind a pillar, it was small wonder that she had missed noticing him before, but now that she saw him, she stopped walking, her pupils all but forgotten.

_What is he doing here?_

As if he'd heard her thoughts, the man that she knew as Cassius turned his head to face her, his vision taking in her whole form with one swift sweep and inevitably freezing on her green irises. She wondered if he stared directly into her eyes because he knew how much it unsettled her, for some men liked the intimidation factor and went out of their way to dominate others.

"I told you that we'd meet again," Cassius greeted, Portia approaching him at a slow pace, determined to keep her controlled appearance despite how he affected her. She joined him, standing to his side as he leaned and she glanced at her students to ensure that no one was fooling around or getting themselves killed.

"I did not expect our meeting to be so soon," Portia stated as Cassius watched her. "But good morning to you all the same. What brings you to the training yard?" The man wore a red tunic and black breeches that she thought suited him better than blue as he shifted his position to straighten.

"I heard that you're a good teacher, so I came to see how well you handle a sword," Cassius told her, and she did not miss that he had a sword strapped to his waist. He followed her gaze down to the weapon and smirked. "Horace might not be one to take up your challenge, but I have never passed up a good fight."

"You enjoy combat?" Portia asked, comforted by the weight of her own sword against her hip, even if it caused her occasional pain. She did not want to feel unarmed and naked around this man.

"I don't deny it," Cassius replied, his posture relaxed despite the unspoken challenge in his words. He almost seemed to wish that she'd pull her sword free right this instant, but Portia would never be so rash. Her eyes swept over him, taking in and calculating what kind of fighter he'd be—strengths, weaknesses, style. However he fought, she was sure that he was the picture of confidence, just as he portrayed himself now.

"And do you think that you'll best me?" Portia questioned, and the words seemed to amuse him.

"I have years of experience on you," he stated, and despite being annoyed by his condescending tone, Portia kept a calm face.

"You should never be arrogant going to battle," she cautioned him. "It might cost you." Cassius chuckled and laid a hand on his sword.

"Then you accept my challenge," he said. "I did not expect less."

"You don't know me well enough to expect anything," Portia said, and Cassius tilted his head to the side, staring at her from an angle as strands of rich, black hair fell across his face. Again, the familiarity of him struck her as peculiar and natural at the same time.

"Of course you would accept my challenge," he asserted. "When you first saw me here, did you realize that your hand automatically shifted toward your weapon? Even now, you're sizing me up aren't you? And you have been since you saw me last night." He stepped closer, and Portia felt her surroundings clouded as they faced one another, the other's words washing over her and making her realize just how closely this man had been examining her. "You're a fighter," he stated. "A lady who spends more time dancing than fighting doesn't have callouses like yours, and I bet that you have a pretty collection of scars decorating that body beneath your tunic."

How did this man come to such accurate conclusions with having barely spoken to her?

"Those hands have shed blood, I'm sure," he continued, and Portia was almost mesmerized by this point. "Do you know how hard it is for people to look me in the eyes and not back down? But you aren't shying away, so where does the unbreakable will come from?" His hand was rising, coming closer to her face. "Don't you think it's beautiful?" his deep voice purred. "Two wills locked together in deadly combat, struggling for dominance even when one knows that defeat is inevitable..." Portia had an uneasy feeling that he was talking about her at a level that she did not appreciate, and as his fingers almost drew close enough to touch her cheek, she broke his spell.

"You'd be dead," she said, pleased when he seemed to snap out of whatever thought had been consuming him. She was holding his wrist, feeling his warm skin against hers as she stared him down.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"I could have killed you countless times while you were talking," and Cassius looked down to see that her other hand was holding a dagger against his abdomen, the point poking a small hole in his tunic. "Care to reevaluate your chances of winning?" The burst of laughter that followed her words filled her ears and drew the students' attention to the foreign diplomat.

"Perhaps I underestimated you," Cassius allowed. "But the true test is only starting." Portia knew that this man would be a difficult opponent, and more than that, she sensed that she was entering treacherous territory, but she could not be stopped. A burning desire to teach this man a lesson had begun to build within her, and for some inexplicable reason, the way that his presence seemed to consume her only added to her urge to accept his challenge. She had to do this or she'd be forced to endure his insufferable smugness, and even without that, his arrogance alone made her want to feed him his words with the point of her blade.

"Students!" she called. "You're dismissed for the day. Pack up your gear and head home." Something in her sharp tone set them to work faster than usual, and she pointedly ignored Cassius to supervise their cleanup as she waited for her duel to begin.

"They respect you," the man behind her noted, stepping down onto the grass as the last of the students vacated the grounds. He had already drawn his sword, and now he held it up in the sunlight, examining its design. It was easily five inches longer than Portia's blade, but she did not mind, for she had taken down opponents with larger weapons before. "Tell me," Mehrunes continued. "Did they respect you as soon as you came, or did you need to frighten them first?" With an expert turn of his wrist, his sword made a graceful arch through the air.

"I did not scare them," Portia told him, not yet drawing her sword, but standing and watching Cassius play. "Fear is not a tool that I use to teach. I prefer that they respect me for my skill, and a few displays were sufficient for that." This man, Cassius, digested her words with the outward guise of a man but the thought process of a destructive daedric prince, and as he listened, Mehrunes decided that Portia might be a very interesting woman to talk to. Their opinions would no doubt clash, but she was a person to back up her thoughts with logic, and he would delight in twisting that, perhaps making her see his views as correct when he broke her. Each snap of a bone would show her how useful fear was, but he did understand her desire to be respected for skill, for he prided himself on battle talent, and that was what made his dremora bow more than anything else. Hmmm. It was pleasant to speak with someone who shared some ideological affinity with him after hours with a snake like Horace.

"I see," Mehrunes mused. "I've always found fear to be a useful tool, but you're right. It has its limits." He let his sword point touch the ground, grazing the grass as he eyed Portia drawing her own weapon. "Do you have any preferences for how we do this?" he asked, admiring how easily she swung her sword into a fighting stance. It was a graceful movement, and she obviously had experience with the particular sword that she was using.

"If you bleed on my yard," she said. "You clean it up, and we stop only when one of us has clearly lost." Mehrunes hoisted his weapon upward with a smile.

"I can live with that. No other conditions?" Portia shook her head, now solely concentrated on battle, her face transformed into a serious mask. "Good. I prefer 'anything goes'." Portia barely had time to blink before her enemy launched himself at her, his sword swinging on the offensive. The ferocity of his attack was staggering, and as she lifted her own sword to catch the edge of his blade, turning her weapon at an angle to deflect the blow, her hand shook from the impact. Gods, but he was strong—stronger than she had guessed, for her hand was almost numb from the effort at deflecting blow after blow, his sword expertly and ceaselessly driving toward her body. If she made a mistake, it would be almost impossible for him to halt his attack with the momentum that he put into each swing and jab, meaning that this duel could quickly become deadly.

What was he aiming at?

Portia knew that she had to do something, for she was losing ground quickly, and she would not be able to play the defensive forever. She stared into Mehrunes' pitch black eyes and found an aggressive and determined will there that was tempered with passion. Whoever this man was, he loved fighting, and if he wanted a fight, he was going to get one.

"Not bad," Portia stated, feeling her muscles tighten with determination. She could not lose to this man, and as the game seemed to become less and less of a game, she grew harder until her face was an emotionless slab of marble where only green eyes betrayed her wrath.

"I'm not impressed," Mehrunes spat while putting his full weight into the next downward slash in order to break her crumbling defense.

_Try this_, Portia grimly thought, and as his blade came straight for her head, she dropped to her back and kicked outward with both feet. Her soles rammed into Mehrunes' gut as she raised her sword above her head, the flat of her blade resting against her palms, and the weapon successfully blocking Mehrunes' attack. The force of his move was thankfully weakened as his body fell backwards from her violent kick, or else she might have been incapable of holding her sword against his, but as was, Mehrunes hit the ground with a loud thump and grunt.

"Fetcher," he hissed as Portia scrambled to her feet and moved to place her blade against his throat to end the duel, but Mehrunes had not released his blade in falling, and he recovered much faster than Portia anticipated. Everything about him seemed inhumanly fast and forceful, and so, as she moved to claim victory, his sword unexpectedly swung at her side from his fallen position, and she barely blocked it, moving one of her feet to stomp on his arm and so force the weapon from his grasp. Her boot met flesh and caused Mehrunes to grimace, but his pain quickly twisted into a vicious snarl as he seized her ankle with his free hand and yanked it out from under her.

"Damn!" Portia lost her balance and fell, hitting the ground with such force that her vision momentarily blackened. Where was...?

"You lose," Mehrunes stated, and then she felt the touch of metal against her throat. He was crouched over her, one of his knees planted firmly on her chest to prevent her from moving, and his sword arm stretched backward to hold his blade's tip a mere hairsbreadth from her jugular. If she breathed too deeply or swallowed, she was sure that it would draw blood, but she couldn't find the spit to swallow anyway as she stared upward at his tensed and hard features. There was a feral quality about him that bordered on bloodlust, and she could only stare and went on staring for what felt like hours. He didn't utter a word, only focusing on her throat until she was sure that he honestly intended to kill her. A light breeze blew dark air across his handsome features, and still his gaze did not waver.

"Lady Augustine?" a timid voice called. Mehrunes quickly pulled off of her, sheathed his sword, and offered her a hand. She reluctantly accepted it and tried to ignore the smug look spreading across his features as she turned to address the servant that stood at the yard's far edge.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Your presence has been requested by a gentleman as the gates, ma'am."

"Thank you. Tell him that I'll be along shortly." It was probably Arelius, and she had never been so glad to hear from him in her life. She sheathed her sword and faced Mehrunes, finding him much calmer than he had been moments before.

"You're talented," he told her, face blankly regarding her. "No one has ever knocked me to the ground before, but..." Now his smile returned. "This round belongs to me." He sounded like he had expected as much, and it annoyed Portia to no end, but then he inclined his head to her in the smallest of gestures. "You are most definitely a worthy opponent," and there was something bordering real respect in his voice. How could there not be when so few, even among the dremora, would openly pursue a duel with him, let alone catch him off guard with a kick?

"Perhaps next time will belong to me," Portia offered. "You're a strong fighter, but if you'll excuse me, I must be going."

"Of course," Mehrunes said, again seemingly reluctant to let her depart. "I would not mind sparring with you again." Portia was less enthused after the bloodlust that she had seen in his eyes, but she would not back down, especially since she had now witnessed and studied his fighting style.

"You know where to find me," she told him. "Until another time, Cassius." Mehrunes nodded and allowed her to leave, impressed that she had handled herself so well, for he had been sorely tempted to draw some blood just to see her eyes light up with fear. Yet she had remained outwardly calm as he held his point against her throat, contemplating how easy it would be to kill her, but finding in that moment that such a quick end was wasteful. He wanted to fight her again, push her further, see if she had it in her to draw his blood. She already had once, and as she refused to glance back at him in her departure, he smirked. Oh yes, she was worthy of having challenged him all that time ago in Oblivion. If someone had to steal from him, he was pleased that it had been her.


	16. Chapter 16: Dark Past, Uncertain Future

Chapter 15:

"An impressive performance, Cassius," Horace applauded. Mehrunes turned toward the man that stood in the shadows of the training yard, and wondered how long the aristocrat had been watching his duel. The prince might have appreciated Portia's skill, but the idea of someone having witnessed him receiving a hit to the gut did not appeal to him. So here was Horace, elegantly striding toward the yard with that half-smirk that others might call charming but which Mehrunes thought conniving, and the Imperial had better have collected worthwhile information. Mehrunes was not known for his patience.

"Any sign of your artifact?" Horace asked, and Mehrunes joined the man, the two moving into a more secluded area where eavesdropping was unlikely.

"She's not wearing it," the prince answered. "Have you discovered who she's in contact with?" He was depending on Horace for this, for Ruined Cloak and his friends were useless in ferreting out personal information on people. It was an unavoidable limitation given that their presence in the capitol was unknown, and so socially orientated tasks would be left to the master and his host, but Mehrunes was still learning the political game of this world. He understood how to manipulate people, but making contacts and knowing who to contact was beyond him with his ignorance of the local populace.

"There isn't much to say about her," Horace stated. "Most people don't know more about her than a name, and she's not very socially connected, so she's slipped through most social circles unnoticed. I did, however, find out that she's living with Captain Arelius Herano of the royal guard and his wife Lucretia, and her date last night was Gilthan Lorenlee, a mage at the Arcane University. She's been seen with him on several occasions, but beyond that, she spends little time with other people."

"Is the elf her lover?" Mehrunes bluntly asked, making Horace chuckle.

"No, my lord. I don't believe so, but if he is, I know where to find him. Are you thinking of blackmail? I could easily facilitate such a course."

"It's a possibility, but I don't want to alert people to our hunt unless necessary," Mehrunes mused. Blackmail was tempting, but he couldn't jump into anything, not after what Ruined Cloak had told him. "Before we do anything, I want to know as much as possible about Portia, and find out what you can about this Arelius. If she has contacts in the University and in the palace, the sphere could be in either one's possession. Let's not chase after the wrong target."

"A wise choice, but are you so sure that she simply isn't hiding it?" Mehrunes said nothing, but began walking out of the palace, and Horace knew better than to fall behind. His master was thinking, and he would allow the contemplative mood to pass before he revealed his best piece of intelligence.

"She _is_ the type of woman to keep her prize, isn't she?" the prince seemed to ask himself, eyes glittering with some emotion that Horace could not classify. "Of course she might have it, but why is she living with a captain of the royal guard? Perhaps she is under someone's protection because of the danger that she's in."

"A man did mention to me that she used to be a member of the guard, and—you'll find this very interesting—from what he remembered, she often vanished for days at a time and was promoted quickly even though she rarely seemed to handle normal duties."

"So there is more to our resident swordswoman than anyone suspects," and Mehrunes smiled. "Lady Augustine grows more interesting by the day, but you said that she _used_ to be a guard. When did she leave service? I need to know if she was working for the palace when she 'visited' my home."

"She left over a year ago," Horace explained. "She disappeared one day and no one heard from her until recently. Arelius might be an old friend of hers from the guard, which would make sense since he is offering her a place to stay."

"And he invited a friendly woman to live with him and his wife?" Mehrunes questioned. "Either the captain is benevolent and his wife exceptionally tolerant, or there is more to that than meets the eye. Find out, and be discreet. This woman is obviously intelligent and connected, whoever she works for now." The prince was beginning to consider that the palace had sent Portia to Oblivion, for surely she would not have come on her own. He had at first suspected the Arcane University because of the scroll that she'd carried, and he wasn't ruling them out, but with Portia's personal history, the Imperial government was likely to blame for the theft against him.

Then again, perhaps her presence had been an accident, yet her actions in his chambers had seemed too methodical for that—like she was hunting for something specific, and she _had_ taken Sable, which any fool would have recognized as dangerous in his hands. The Imperial family would not have wanted Sable at Mehrunes' disposal, for he could have used it to find the last heir. So then the Blades were the natural choice to suspect of a mission to reclaim the artifact, but that said nothing about the chaos sphere, which he was much more desperate to reclaim than Sable. And he had a nagging feeling that the sphere was in Portia's possession despite her superiors, for he was certain that taking it had not been her original intent, and so perhaps no one even knew that she had it. Perhaps she didn't even realize what she had stolen, and if the university or palace had confiscated the sphere, they would probably have tried to study and unleash its power by now, yet the familiar pulses of destructive energy were missing.

"Finding out who her employer is should not be difficult, my lord," Horace was saying, and if the Imperial hadn't been so accustomed to flattering people, he'd have been annoyed by constantly addressing his companion as 'my lord'. "If I may, there is someone who might know more about Portia, but he will be difficult to reach." Mehrunes paused, clearly interested in the topic.

"Who is this person, and why would he know her?"

"His name is Raig Varn, a Redguard that used to be a member of the palace guard. He was involved in the first assassination attempt, but he was found guilty of tampering with the locks that allowed the Mythic Dawn into the palace, and now the fool's rotting away in the depths of the Imperial prison. He wasn't the smartest recruit, but he claimed to be part of the Blades, and his knowledge made us believe him. He's still alive, and if anyone knows whether Portia was connected to the Blades, he'll be our best source."

"Do you know where he is in the prison?" Mehrunes demanded, eager to reach the man.

"Not exactly," Horace admitted. "He's in the lower levels, but reaching him will be..."

"Done by tomorrow morning," Mehrunes finished, making Horace falter in his speech.

"My lord?"

"Don't sound so surprised, human," Mehrunes grinned. "Ruined Cloak is good for more than opening portals. Can you describe the Redguard?"

"He's tall with a strange circular tattoo on his left shoulder. That's all I know, but he shouldn't be difficult to locate once inside—if the guards can be avoided in the hallways, that is. There are few prisoners in the lower chambers, but I've also heard that it's like a maze down there." The Imperial did not like Ruined Cloak, but if the man wanted to rush into a prison filled with aggressive guards, let him. His death would not be objectionable to Horace, but then again, how would Mehrunes get back to Oblivion without the mage to open another gate? Nothing convinced Horace that Ruined Cloak was dangerous more than that simple realization. Mehrunes didn't even talk as if failure was an option, and that made a man wonder just what kind of creature Ruined Cloak was beneath his disguise.

"You are rather silent, Horace," Mehrunes sarcastically noted. "I did not know that your tongue ever faltered." Horace wanted to glare but kept himself in check, knowing that Mehrunes was not human despite his outward appearance._ And he can fight_, Horace thought, having witness the prince's match with Portia.

"I am merely wondering how Ruined Cloak will sneak into the prison," Horace admitted.

"You forget that the emperor was assassinated in the prison," Mehrunes chuckled. "How fitting that my jailor should die in the filth and grime of his own prison. But the point is that the Mythic Dawn knew of the prison's secret passages then, and they still do. Raig will be receiving a visitor tonight." Horace hadn't known where the emperor had been murdered, and so this latest news was most surprising and fortuitous, for if the Mythic Dawn had the run of secret passageways, then his allies were indeed more influential and capable than he'd imagined. This was very good news for an ambitious traitor.

"In the meantime, I shall see if I can't arrange for us to meet nobles with Mythic Dawn sympathies," Horace offered. "I've already contacted several, but they're worried about being exposed. I imagine that we'll be invited to their homes on the pretense of courtesy, so other guests will remain a problem for more intimate conversations, but the groundwork can be laid."

"I trust you to make the arrangements," Mehrunes replied. He had only been half-listening, for he was far too occupied in imagining what sort of political webs Portia was involved in, and why she had left the guard. It was a fascinating subject, and one that would preoccupy him for the remainder of the day. Well after Ruined Cloak had left to handle his mission, the daedric prince stood pacing in his room, a knife twirling between his fingers, and mind focused on someone who was shaping up to be more of an adversary than he'd ever expected.

*************

The shadows wrapped about him with their comforting arms, and cradled in their depths, a cloaked figure stalked the silent, stone hallways of a nearly empty prison. The guards were easily avoided, for torches announced their presence long before they came close enough to detect an intruder, and little did they know, but they were participating in a game not of their own choosing, for the intruder often passed within several feet of them. If they had been straining their ears, they might have detected the faint, nearly inaudible rustling of fabric, but their heavier footsteps blotted out softer noises, and no matter how hard they might stare into the darkness, they never noticed any movement.

It was their loss, but their ignorance also saved their lives.

Ruined Cloak seemed more wraith than man as he navigated the labyrinth that was the Imperial prison, but he wasn't even employing the use of magic. Natural skill kept him concealed as he searched for his target, and when he found the man...? Well, that depended on how helpful the person was, and even then, Ruined Cloak was almost certain that there would be blood tonight. He could not leave the man to possibly tell the guards that he'd been interrogated, and freeing the Redguard was out of the question, for that would lead to unwanted rumors. No, death was always the quickest and most convenient course, and Ruined Cloak was an absolute supporter of efficiency.

Had master forbidden killing? _No_, the man reasoned with the coldness of the prison itself, and this prisoner had failed in his duties anyway. He probably wasn't even a true supporter, but some greedy guard that had thought he'd gain from using the Mythic Dawn. Ruined Cloak smugly smiled within the folds of his hood, but no one would ever know. No one had seen his face in a very long time, and he preferred it that way.

He crept along, peering into cells and noting occupants before advancing, his mind solely on his task and service. It was an honor to serve, and even better to escape the sewers for some action. He was patient enough, and of his companions, he handled isolation and darkness better than they did, for all he needed was the soft hum of magic between his fingertips to keep him occupied and content. He was not a demanding man in any sense of the word, and his natural inclinations had made him ideal for long, lonely missions, which had in turn deepened his reclusiveness. He didn't even particularly like to talk anymore, but he didn't strongly object to speech either. He merely avoided human company if possible.

_This must be him_.

Ruined Cloak found himself looking at a pathetically emaciated man who was sulking at the back of a cell amounting to little more than a hole in the wall. He could just make out the man's slouched figure, but it smelled like a Redguard, and that was enough for him. Deft fingers unlocked the door and slipped inside with silent expertise. The prisoner didn't even notice his guest until Ruined Cloak's hand was over his mouth, and the man's neutral, near monotone voice at his ear.

"Are you Raig Varn? Don't try to speak. Just nod your head." The prisoner answered in the affirmative, and Ruined Cloak smiled at the man's obvious apprehension. "I'm going to remove my hand, but if you make any sudden movements or noise, I'll kill you." Again, the man nodded, and Ruined Cloak released him.

"Who are you?" Raig asked, his voice hoarse and defensive.

"You were working for me when you were found guilty," came the enigmatic reply, and now the Redguard looked hopeful.

"You've come to release me?" he desperately asked.

"Yes," and Ruined Cloak was again smiling, loving his own honest yet cryptic response. "It depends on how useful you are. What do you know of a woman named Portia Augustine? Was she in the Blades?"

"How can I trust you?" the Redguard suspiciously countered.

"You can't, but I'm your only chance at freedom, so tell me what you know of this woman."

"I was never directly told, but I'm sure that she was a Blade. I answered to Captain Arelius, and she was always close to him. He gave her orders, promoted her, met with her in private—everything to suggest that she was a Blade."

"But she is no longer a Blade?" Ruined Cloak suggested.

"No, she left after some accident. I heard that she killed one of her own men on a mission, and after that, she resigned and turned in her armor. I don't know where she went, but she wasn't around here, and Arelius definitely wasn't pleased about it. He kept her position vacant for several months. I guess that he hoped she'd return, but I never saw her again." Ruined Cloak digested the information and subtly removed a dagger from his belt.

"Do you know anything else about her?" he checked.

"No, so are we leaving now? You said that..."

"Oh yes," and with one rapid stroke, Ruined Cloak had slit the man's throat. He quickly rose from his position over the body, his work finished, and the edges of his robe skimming across the widening pool of blood about him. If he noticed, he didn't care, and so thin lines of red trailed behind him as he departed, their irregular patterns nearly invisible in the prison's dim light. No one noticed one figure's passing, and the dead inmate's body would not be discovered until morning. Ruined Cloak was quite pleased with himself, and why should he be? The information that he'd gained would delight his master.

***********

Portia was lying in bed, the blankets tossed aside as the temperature of the room seemed to scorch down her back. This was ridiculous. It wasn't hot, but then why was she so damn uncomfortable and sweaty? Sleep did not come easily, and when it did, she tossed and turned, the chaos sphere that had been reattached to her ear shining like a pinpoint of fire in the darkness of her room.

_Hands._

Portia tried to pull away, but someone was firmly holding her right hand, and warm lips softly pressed against her knuckles, kissing her with a gentleness that she did not expect. This was not the sort of dream that she was accustomed to, and as she wondered where Oblivion was, she found herself drifting further into a blackness, led by an unseen hand. She knew who the hand belonged to, for the presence could belong to no one but Mehrunes, yet she could not see him, and why he should be showing her courtesy through a kiss lacked reason.

"Where are you?" she asked, fear rising in the back of her throat, but there was no response—only another kiss, and then the figure was pulling her closer. Gods, Mehrunes was pulling her closer! She unconsciously began praying to the Nine, calling on each one in rapid succession as a hand landed on her waist, the other rising her remaining arm into the air. This position was familiar, and although this was uncharacteristic behavior on his part, she instinctively knew that it was Mehrunes' chest that she brushed against as she began turning. They were...dancing? Had Sheogorath come to visit her? She didn't think that she could handle the attentions of two daedric princes at once, for she'd surely snap from the stress.

_No, this can't be. I need to see where I am_.

Portia concentrated as her body moved with his, and the entire time, she was aware that his fingers were tracing the hidden scar on her hip. He knew that it was her, so why was he being polite? In utter bewilderment, Portia began to summon her willpower and force her release from the prince. She wasn't going to be led through the darkness by her adversary, and being touched by him in such a close, almost respectful yet demanding way was highly unnerving. It reminded her of someone, but she was too busy concentrating on conquering her dream to make the connection that dangled before her.

"Enough!" she yelled, and with a flare of energy, she was free, but not in the way that she imagined. She was now standing in a spacious room that contained the furnishings of an aristocrat, and judging by the style of the objects and building, she was in Tamriel—the capitol to be exact. Was that the palace that she could see through the window? She thought so, but it was difficult to tell since night had fallen, and the room was barely lit with several candles on a central table.

"That is all, my lord," a voice spoke in the darkness, and Portia nearly jumped when a cloaked figure brushed by her. She carefully moved toward the edge of the room where she could keep an eye on her surroundings, and with the reassurance that she was, in fact, still dreaming and unseen by other people, she began studying the room more closely. The bed was large and covered with rich, green blankets and sheets, the canopy above it matching in color. She touched the material.

_Expensive. Where am I?_

Movement caught her eye, and so she moved back into the shadows, surprised when a man walked out of a corner and toward the table where the candles sat. She could not see a face, but she knew who it was when a hand extended to snuff out the flames, for the skin was undeniably reddish in hue, designs branching out over its surface.

_Mehrunes Dagon_. The name went through her mind rapidly, and she stared as his fingers squeezed one flame after another into nonexistence. Was his hold over the sphere so strong that it summoned her unconscious body to him here, in her own world? She didn't understand how that was possible as he began moving toward the bed, but even as she warily backed away, she noted that something about Mehrunes was different. Something was...wrong.

He did not have four arms, but two, and as he reached the bed and began laying down to sleep, she thought that he was perhaps smaller than he had been when she'd last seen him. He was more human in appearance for certain, but she could still see his natural skin color and small horns as he relaxed, and then it struck her as odd that he was relaxing. He looked so normal in the dark, when his features were hidden and his body shifted across blankets to make himself comfortable. True, she had seen his bed before, but he'd never actually been in it, and here he was, preparing to sleep.

_Here_, her mind emphasized. _In the capitol, Portia_. She stepped closer to him, forcing herself to double-check and ensure that this was indeed the prince of destruction. She needed to confirm that this was not just a random dream, but reality, for otherwise doubts would hinder her ability to cope with this newfound evidence. So she lifted a hand and gently pulled back the curtains that dangled, half-closed, about the head of the bed, trying to gain a better view of...

"Here?" Mehrunes suddenly bellowed, shocked, shooting up in the bed to sit upright, and if she could have seen in the dark, Portia was sure that his mouth would be hanging open. "I don't believe this." Portia began backing off, now more certain than ever that this was Mehrunes, for no one could mistaken that voice for anyone else's. "Being, what the hell are you doing _here_?" Portia had no answer, and she left before Mehrunes finished getting out of bed to pursue his inquiry further.

________________

So, does anyone have a guess as to what Ruined Cloak is?

I hope that you enjoyed it, and thank you for all the reviews!


	17. Chapter 17: Asking for Favors

Chapter 16:

It was unusual to be called to a private meeting with Hannibal Traven, and even more unusual if you were a relatively low-ranking guild member like Gilthan Lorenlee. The high elf sat in the Arch-mage's chambers and watched as the Breton seated across from him neatly smoothed out his blue robes. He had a wide face and wispy, white hair that was brushed back from his face, but it never stayed that way. It would soon look its usual tousled self, and Gilthan hoped that he would be gone by then—not that he didn't like the mage, but considering the situation with Portia, he wasn't keen to be pulled into Traven's meddling, for the Arch-mage did have a reputation for that.

"You have been called here to discuss the chaos sphere that rests in Portia Augustine's hands," Traven stated, not bothering to beat around the bush. "It has been noted that you have some sort of relationship with the woman. May I ask what the nature of that relationship is?"

"We are friends," Gilthan allowed, knowing that lying was probably pointless. Traven had sources, and the man wasn't afraid to use his power to pull strings. It was best to take this interview seriously and at the man's pace, for unlike Gilthan, the Breton was not known for his sense of humor.

"She has sought you out on several occasions," Traven dispassionately noted. "Would you say that she trusts you?"

"That's what being friends is about," Gilthan smiled, although he was hardly relaxed.

"So then you can remain close to her," Traven mused, fingers folded under his chin. "I have a task for you, Gilthan, and when you are finished, you'll deserve a promotion." As if the high elf was as ambitious as his superior! Gilthan had allowed many possibilities for advancement to pass him because of his lack of interest in rank. As long as he could merrily go about his own business and play a few pranks in the process, he wasn't concerned with power, but it might not be wise to tell Traven that.

"I see her from time to time," he explained. "Is there a reason that you'd like me to remain close to her? As a friend, breaking her trust is not something that I take lightly."

"It's not breaking trust when it's in her own interest," Traven soothed. "And your loyalty is first and foremost to the guild. You wouldn't want to see Miss Augustine injured, I assume."

"Well, I'd be a rather horrible friend if I thought that," Gilthan chuckled. "No, I like her happy and healthy, and I suppose that you're worried about the chaos sphere."

"It is a troubling matter," Traven said while closing his eyes in thought. "And one that the council is still trying to resolve without bringing more people into the matter. Your research has been most helpful, and tell me, have you seen any signs of negative affects on your friend?" Gilthan shrugged in the lighthearted manner that he was known for.

"She seems perfectly normal. I asked her to bring any concerns to me, and she hasn't, so I trust her judgement." Traven leveled a stare at him that would have made a lesser man cower. The Arch-mage could be damn scary when he put his mind to it.

"You haven't accidently let anything about the artifact slip, I trust," the man lowly stated. "That would be reprehensible. She is to know absolutely nothing about what she has, and I must admit that your famously flippant attitude worries me."

"I've been careful," Gilthan dismissed.

"Good. Keep a close on her since the two of you are...friendly. I want to know the moment that anything seems off, for if she starts to unlock the sphere's power, we'll take it from her. I don't care if we are ready for it or not. I won't risk her causing a disaster." The mage rang a bell that sat on his desk, and Gilthan immediately heard the door behind him open. "I'll wait for word from you," the mage continued as Gilthan stood. "And Gilthan?"

"Something else?" the elf asked with a half-smile that made Traven frown.

"In the name of the Nine, take this seriously for once." Gilthan's response was a forced chuckle to further crease the mage's face, and with that, he left for his own quarters. So Traven was worried that he wasn't taking this problem seriously. Well, that was incorrect, for Gilthan was very serious, just not exactly in the manner that the mage expected. He had many heavy topics weighing on his mind at the time, and had it not been for his jovial nature, he was fairly certain that he'd have gone insane by now.

_So much to deal with. Great, and now I'm sounding like my father_.

Gilthan was nearing his chambers as he thought back to the ball that he had attended with Portia. She had been lovely in her gown—far more beautiful than he had previously noticed, and being the flirt that he sometimes was, he had definitely made a few passes at her, but she knew that he was jesting. That was how he was, and he thought it part of being the perfect companion for her that night. The dancing had been splendid, as he recalled, but that did not erase his concerns, for he had seen Cassius, and the man looked damn familiar.

Gilthan rested a hand against the door to his room and momentarily paused, sensing a person within. Hopefully no one had noticed the book that he'd stolen from the library's restricted section, for that would incriminate him in ways that he was not sure he could joke his way out of, and it was that book that was the source of his current concerns. Cassius had struck him oddly the other night, and it didn't help that the man had glared daggers at him for taking Portia away. The woman was perceptive and had probably noticed the way that Cassius almost possessively gripped her during the dance, his eyes alight with startling energy. Gilthan had not liked the man's attentions one bit, and with the nagging feeling at the back of his mind, he had tried to keep Portia way from him. She should have been doing so on her own, but for some reason that was beyond him, she had almost seemed captivated by the diplomat, even leaning in toward him when they danced. When their eyes locked, they might as well have been in a private room, and Gilthan admitted that he had felt a pang of jealousy at the sight.

_Cassius. _

Gilthan had seen a similar looking man before, and the illustration was in his book, but Cassius couldn't be Mehrunes Dagon, for the prince was notoriously blunt and assertive, which Cassius was not. Okay, maybe blunt, but Mehrunes parading as a diplomat from Morrowind? It seemed incredibly unlikely, and even more so when he considered that Portia had safely left the ball that night. _And_, he reminded himself, _there are darker Imperials that might be half-breeds from Morrowind_. Still, the man presented a possibility that made Gilthan nervous, and that was why he'd told Portia to stay away from that diplomat. Perhaps he should have mentioned the reason for his fears, and normally he would have done so in the lightest way possible, but he didn't want Portia to panic. She was nervous as it was without dealing with paranoia, so he had cautioned her, and she trusted his word enough to take the advice, or so he hoped.

"Bubble, spittle, spat," he cursed as he stepped into his room. _I need to get some air, annoy my boss, maybe grab some food, and then I will work on this mystery. _

"Hello, Gilthan," Portia greeted. Then again, maybe he'd start working right away.

"Portia!" and he embraced her in a friendly hug. "This is an unexpected joy." She was pretty as ever in her tunic and pants, hair pulled back into a ponytail, and left hand gently resting on the hilt of the sword at her waist. "Someone had a rough night," he concluded on closer inspection, noticing the bags under her eyes and her worn smile.

"I didn't sleep well," and taking the hint, Gilthan closed the door.

"It's rather risky for you to visit me here," he replied. "People will think that I'm calling in women, and in broad daylight too. Just a moment, before my reputation grows." He muttered a few words, and the air shimmered for the merest of moments before he returned his attention to his guest. She was sitting on the windowsill, hands resting in her lap as she sighed and rubbed a hand across her eyes. "I'm sorry to say this, but you're not here for lunch, are you? What's wrong?" He joined her at the windowsill, a golden hand reaching out to hold hers. "This is the perfect picture," he smiled. "No one watching will think that we're up to anything."

"We make quite the image of a loving couple, don't we?" Portia managed to smile, and Gilthan gave her hands a squeeze while he chuckled.

"I've had years of practice." Then his smile relaxed into a steady expression as her worried eyes sought his, and he lowered his voice. "What's happened? You've been staying away from Cassius, I hope."

"I wish that he was the only problem," Portia sighed. "I had the strangest vision last night. Remember how I told you that Mehrunes wasn't in Oblivion?" Gilthan nodded. "Well, I still feel a connection to him when I wear the sphere. For instance, before the ball, I sensed him being impatient for some reason, but once I took off the earring, it was gone. Then I slept with the sphere on last night, and I can't explain what happened, but I was taken to him."

"Like when he was in Oblivion?" Gilthan asked.

"Exactly, only we weren't in Oblivion." Portia stared out the window, her profile giving Gilthan a clear view of the orb dangling beside her neck. The scene would have been lovely if not for that emblem of dread.

"Let me get us some wine before we continue," the elf offered, seeing Portia's inner turmoil.

"You and wine," she weakly smiled. "Alright. One glass." With a few words, the bottle was before them, and Gilthan carefully poured her a glass of red that was quickly downed. His own glass was nearly forgotten as she continued with her story. "I was dreaming of being trapped in a dark place with Mehrunes, and when I tried to fight it, I ended up in another bedroom. I don't know exactly where it was, but I swear that it's in the capitol. I could see the palace from the window."

"Do you remember which side of the palace you saw?" Gilthan interjected. "I don't mean to interrupt, but if you had a clear view, we might be able to find the house."

"I know," Portia agreed. "But I was a bit distracted by the other person in the room with me."

"Mehrunes Dagon is here then," and for the first time, Portia noted a deep and troubling expression on Gilthan's face. It was far too grave to belong on him.

"He was different than in Oblivion," Portia stated. "He looked more human, but his skin was the same, and he was getting ready for bed. I don't know what to make of that...but he knew that I was there—well, not me, but he recognized my presence, like in Oblivion."

"Let's hope that he never figures out that you and the thief are the same person," Gilthan warned. "Don't give him any reason to recognize you."

"He couldn't know," Portia mused. "Or he wouldn't be so tolerant of me, I'm sure. What bothers me most was what happened when I left him. I pulled out of the vision to avoid him, and I woke up in my bedroom, but I could still feel him. I was almost forcefully pulled back into sleep, and I know that it was his doing. He was calling me, and it almost worked. I could hear his voice in my head, demanding that I return and explain myself. He threatened to force me to answer him, and...and, Gilthan, if I hadn't stood up and run laps around my room to stay awake, I'm sure that he'd have won. Even now, I keep feeling his presence coming and going, as if he's walking beside me, and then it's gone. He really wants to know what I am now that I've found him outside of Oblivion..."

The two remained silent while Gilthan poured her another glass of wine and watched as she eased into forced calmness.

"I keep wondering what will happen if I pass him on the street. Will he recognize me because of the pull between us?"

"I don't know, Portia," Gilthan replied. "I wish that I had an answer for you, but this has never happened before. We knew that the sphere would slowly affect you, but I never foresaw this. When you told me that you could physically touch Mehrunes in Oblivion, I was surprised enough as it was, but this...I have no answer for this, except that the magic in the artifacts is slowly binding you, and now that he's here, there's less distance separating the pull."

"That's what I'm worried about," Portia said with another sip of wine.

"However, there is some good news," Gilthan offered. "Since you are as aware of this pull as he is, you should be able to recognize him as well. If he can sense you in passing on the street, the knowledge should be mutual. You've felt nothing like that yet, so perhaps he hasn't either." It made sense, but Portia still had more questions than answers.

"I'm thinking that I just won't wear the sphere," she offered. "Then the tie would be severed, but I suppose that doing that would cause its own complications."

"You wouldn't have any idea where he is or what he's doing," Gilthan said, finishing her train of thought.

"Exactly. If he's here to find me, I can't avoid him forever by not wearing it. And even if he's not here for that, I could spy on him. We can't just let him do whatever he wants."

"Portia," Gilthan pointedly began. "You know that he's here for the sphere. It's the key to amplifying his power."

"I know," Portia said. "But I like to consider all my possibilities. And I know that I should wear the sphere so that I at least have a warning of his presence, but if he sees me wearing it, I'm done for. I'm sure that he won't hesitate to kill me if he sees the opportunity." Yet she wasn't entirely sure about that last comment, for Mehrunes hadn't overly exerted himself in trying to kill the 'being' in Oblivion. He'd engaged her in her spirit state, but he hadn't been hellbent on destroying her. She had read about his sick sense of competition and desire for challenging fights, but did that outweigh his anger at her? Only he could answer that, but somehow she had a feeling that he wouldn't outright murder her, and she blamed hours of reading and thinking about him for that.

"Here," Gilthan offered, and he raised a hand to cup it around the sphere, the orange light glowing from between his fingers. "Allow me to be of service." He smiled, and with a sharp flash, he suddenly retracted his hand. "It's invisible now. No one will know that you're wearing the sphere unless they touch it." Portia lifted a hand and felt the orb, but standing to check herself in a mirror beside Gilthan's bed, she saw nothing. She admired how easily he had cast the spell, for there wasn't even a hint of the object's outline. "That went better than expected," he chuckled. "Once I made someone's torso invisible when I tried to target their clothing."

"Why were you trying to make a woman's clothing disappear?" Portia questioned.

"I never said that it was a she," Gilthan scoffed.

"I'm sure that it was." The elf laughed in his carefree manner as he walked over to Portia and turned her in a quick spin.

"Quite right, and now it is time that you went before Traven comes down here for a one-on-one conversation. The man wants me to spy on you, and I daresay that he's seriously thinking of confiscating your sphere." Portia's face tensed, her eyes blazing.

"Just what I need," she sarcastically commented. "First a daedra, now a nosy mage."

"If you can handle the former, I'm sure that the latter won't be a problem, but be careful. And keep clear of suspicious people."

"Like Cassius, I know," Portia said, trying to joke about Gilthan's distrust of the man. He couldn't know that she had been assigned to get closer to the stranger, and she didn't plan on telling him. Then again, the elf might be very instrumental in helping her since he was so concerned. "Gilthan, can you find out more about Horace Pantrov? You seem to know him, and you're right: I think that he and his friend are dangerous. I want to know what they're up to."

"I'll see what I can do." Gilthan opened the door and offered her his arm. Looped together, they made their way toward the university exit, Gilthan whispering reassurances in Portia's ear as she told him that she would be fine and that he didn't need to act like her mother. Meanwhile, above them, a Breton mage stood at his window and watched the two transverse the grounds of his guild.

****************

Three days passed, and Tamil was still waiting for word from Morrowind. She had been certain that the information she sought would not be terribly difficult to find, but there had been no word from her homeland contacts, and the Blades were known for efficiency no matter where they were stationed.

"Still waiting?" Portia asked from where she reclined on a couch. Tamil crumpled the letter in her hands and tossed it into the fireplace with utter contempt.

"I hate waiting," she complained. "And Arelius won't give me more active assignments until he's satisfied that I'm fully healed." Portia too hated the waiting game, for it reminded her of walking the streets everyday, expecting Mehrunes to appear at any moment. It was nerve wracking in her case, although for Tamil it was simply annoying, and when Tamil was annoyed, her tongue grew sharper. The Imperial had come to realize that her dark elf comrade liked action and was patient only when it came to stalking shadows and setting up traps.

"If Cassius is a known diplomat in the province, shouldn't he be easy to investigate?" Portia mused aloud.

"He should be," Tamil agreed. The dark elf sat in a chair with her feet propped up on the table before her. Arelius had given her these rooms while she recovered, and while the elf was impeccably obedient to her superior, she was quite an uncouth ruffian when he was nowhere in sight. Portia rather liked the woman's rough edges and sharp tongue, but at the same time, the elf was intelligent, loyal, and sympathetic to Portia's situation. She had already claimed that she would ensure that the Dawn stayed away from both of them, and for that, Portia admired the woman's resolve. Even when the elf's wound stung, she brushed it off with ease, claiming that she only needed a job to focus on.

"This entire situation is suspicious," Portia stated.

"Smells like false identity, if you ask me," Tamil said. "Cassius and Horace have a lot of explaining to do. If we find dirt on them, we can bring them in for questioning, and I'd love it if they're connected to the Dawn. I'm going to find whoever poisoned me, and when I do, it won't be pretty. How's your operation going?" Tamil was doing Morrowind background on Cassius while Portia handled getting closer to the two.

"There's a dinner party tonight," Portia said. "I managed to get invited through one of my student's parents, and our two favorite diplomats will be there. As soon as Arelius gets here, I need to get ready." The two were waiting for a meeting with the man, and afterwards, it was time to face a party where she'd hopefully catch Cassius's eye, which she was certain wouldn't be terribly difficult, but one could never tell. People were fickle, and there was still the matter of finding out whether or not Cassius and Horace were actually a threat and connected to the Dawn. That was the concern of the Blades, for the Dawn members that had infiltrated the city were being remarkably quiet, and it didn't sit well with anyone. It seemed as if they'd simply disappeared, although Tamil was all for a trip to the sewers. Portia suspected that Arelius objected to her request because of the high risk of losing Tamil in the process, and he couldn't spare anyone at the moment.

"You already have an outfit and weapon selected?" Tamil conversationally inquired.

"You love weapons," Portia noted with a smile.

"That I do. I have a lovely dagger that you could borrow if you'd like."

"I've got my own, thanks," Portia replied. "Do you wish that you were the one going?"

"It'd be better than sitting around here, but no; that Horace guy is a little touchy-feely from what I've heard, and then I'd be in trouble for breaking his hands." The two shared a laugh over the comment as the door opened and Arelius entered with a pleased expression.

"I'm glad to see that you two are getting along," he smiled. It almost felt like old times, when Portia was still the leading Blade, and the organization was bonded with friendship as well as service. It lightened his heart and duties to know that there was more here than the cold formality that had been dominating the Blades since the assassinations, and as he glanced at his two most trusted workers, he let himself forget that the two could die any day during this dangerous game. Tamil, his knife in the dark. Portia, his possible successor. She would be ready with time, for that sword was looking more comfortable on her hip by the day. She was returning to him—to the cause, and Akatosh knew that such was his greatest desire for her. His career was not an easy one, but occasionally the pride and benefits went beyond anything ever promised.

______________

And next comes the dinner party, meaning more interaction between our favorite prince and his victim! Yeah! And thanks for the reviews. Also, I'd love to hear who everyone's favorite character is. I'm curious, because I'm really starting to get attached to Tamil, who I wasn't originally planning to make a major playing in the plot.


	18. Chapter 18: Honor, Interests, Respect

Chapter 17:

Portia stepped into the room while lifting the hem of her white dress to prevent it from trailing on the floor. Considering her new role as a spy, Arelius and Lucretia had hired a tailor to craft her several appropriate evening outfits, for which she was indebted. Knowing that Arelius had money did not change her dislike of accepting charity, however necessary it was, and although she'd tried to simply use one of Lucretia's old dresses, the woman would have none of it. Apparently socialites like the ones whose midst she was entering would notice if she was wearing older clothing and then gossip about it. Lucretia did not want Portia to be embarrassed, even though the Blade hardly cared whether these people thought her a little unstylish or not.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted several nobles as they acknowledged her presence. She was one of the earlier guests, which had been intentional on her part, for she wanted to study the room and choose a position of comfort and ease for her job. Meandering through the sparsely populated entry way, she was ushered into a dining room that spoke volumes about the manor's finances. A long, rectangular table cut down the room's center, and its darkly polished wood was set for thirty guests. Walking down the line of chairs, Portia eyed the silver platters of fruit that dotted the table, ivy neatly wound about the edges of the serving dishes, trailing from one dish to the next, and red petals tossed into the mix to amplify the already charming display.

Candelabras lit the immediate dining area, and single-candle stands lined the room's edges to lend an intimate and comfortable feel to the impending meal. There was something graceful and warm about the entire scene as Portia took in the tapestried walls and hurrying servers, but she also noted that numerous open doorways connected to the room, which meant that keeping an eye on everyone would be difficult. Judging by the smell of lilac and the gentle breeze sweeping in from the right side of the room, she concluded that the garden probably connected to the banquet hall. Such a setting usually proved amiable to a quick exit.

"Excuse me," she called to a server who was placing wine glasses at each setting. "Are there assigned seats, or am I free to choose?"

"You may sit where you like, ma'am," came the polite response.

"Thank you." Portia selected a seat toward one of the room's corners and waited for the other guests to arrive. It was a short wait, for people were already filing into the room for their meal, and Portia found herself squashed between a retired knight and a Sintav who possessed an annoyingly high pitched laugh for a male. The company was tolerable, and the appetizers amazing as she sampled some sort of crab dip on bread, but her eyes constantly flitted about the room, waiting for two men to arrive. She prayed that they hadn't canceled their attendance as the host and hostess entered the room, for the meal was about to commence, and she wasn't keen to stay and play a perfectly proper women for her own enjoyment.

"Lady Augustine!" the host exclaimed, his hands clapping together in delight. "I'm glad to see that you accepted our invitation. We owe you an evening for your service to the empire."

"It's a honor to be invited, sir," Portia replied. "I can't spend all of my time in the training yard."

"Indeed," the man laughed, and he took his place at the head of the table. "And here are our last guests. Please, my good fellows, have a seat." Portia turned her eyes as the indicated men more clearly stepped into the candlelight, and despite her relief at their arrival, a shadow of apprehension crossed her features as Cassius and Horace advanced down the table toward her location. The only open seats were directly across from her, and she instinctively knew that Cassius was staring at her as she lifted her wine glass for a servant to refill.

"We apologize for keeping you waiting," Horace was saying, and Portia heard him pull his chair out from the table. She did not look but rather felt attention as she took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair to appear nonchalant. By the nine, she wished that her sword was here with her, but she only had a dirk, and that wouldn't be much help unless she gained a surprise hit on her opponent.

"It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Augustine," Cassius smiled, his black eyes twinkling in the candlelight. She looked at him and gently inclined her head forward in respect, for this man, despite his threatening manner, had more than earned her regard by besting her in their first duel. He was relentless, aggressive, and confident with a sword, and she was willing to bet that he possessed more natural talent than herself.

"I trust that you are doing well, sir," Portia replied.

"There is no need for formality," he stated. "You may call me Cassius, and drop the 'sirs'. I should think that it's appropriate after being kicked in the stomach."

"I suppose it is," Portia smiled, appreciating the man's darker sense of humor. She was well aware of Horace observing her with interest as he snapped for a server's attention, and she hoped that she could avoid his leering stares for the night, but he seemed like a persistent man. Perhaps not when compared to his friend, but still...

"Having your hair down suits you," Cassius was saying.

"I would say that you're kind, Cassius, but I am still recovering from a bruise on my back." If he wanted to joke about their fight, then she would accommodate him, and it appeared to work as he chuckled and downed an entire glass of wine in one shot. So he was a drinker—probably with a high tolerance, and he didn't mind putting his elbows on the table when it was socially frowned upon. Portia studied everything about him as the first course appeared, even as her neighbors pulled her into lighter conversation, for she was suppose to get closer to Cassius and Horace in order to evaluate them and their possible contacts. She had to make them interested in her, and so she constantly returned to addressing them, all the while jotting ideas down on the inside of her head.

_He hates small talk_, she realized. Cassius looked bored with the woman beside him as she recounted a trip to the countryside, but Horace faked riveted interest very well. He excelled at weaving tales and making the mundane into an artful conversation, and although he tried to pull his companion into his conversations, Cassius was resistant. He seemed much more interested in eating and drinking, his focus shifting between his plate and Portia as she finished a conversation with the knight to her left. Even when she spoke with someone else, he seemed to be waiting to speak with her, as if she managed to be more interesting than the entirety of the party.

"Cassius," she began, and the man's dark eyes fastened on her. "Would you say that I'm talented with a blade?"

"Certainly," the diplomat bluntly replied.

"Then please tell this knight errant that I can defend myself." The knight laughed as Portia indignantly popped one grape after another into her mouth, his loud guffaw drawing attention to their conversation.

"I was merely telling the woman that I pride myself on defending a beautiful lady's honor," the knight explained to Cassius's stern gaze. "Perhaps I implied that you are a lady to be defended, but it was more a comment on your beauty, ma'am." Portia was about to reply when Cassius beat her to the punch.

"She'd be too much for you to handle," came his sharp comment.

"Excuse me?" the knight questioned, unaccustomed to Cassius's direct method of voicing his opinion.

"With a blade, of course," the diplomat continued, although his smirk suggested that he meant in other ways as well. The knight snorted in dismissal, which made Cassius set aside his wine and lean forward. "You knights with your code of honor toward women are rather outdated, if you ask me. This woman is dangerous with a sword, and so I would treat her as any other opponent should she face me." His words, although low and somewhat cold, flattered Portia, for here was a man who had bested her, and he was claiming that she was skilled enough to forgo special treatment. She did not like when male swordsman treated women as lesser and hence held back when fighting them.

"Are you saying that you'd kill a defeated woman like you would anyone else?" the knight demanded from Cassius, the air around them tightening. It wasn't threatening, but it was rather uncomfortable and made the people around them feel awkward. Already the hostess was watching them and contemplating intervention to keep the mood amiable.

"I'm saying that when someone chooses to fight me, they mark themselves as an enemy," Cassius was explaining. "If it's a woman, it makes no difference, especially when she's strong enough to hold her own." He offered Portia a slight nod, which she accepted with a raise of her glass. The knight had been put in his place, and she had this dark diplomat to thank for it.

"Your point is taken," the knight stiffly commented. "But you make yourself sound without honor, and without honor, you're little more than a common brute. Take dremora for instance." Portia noticed Cassius's jaw tighten, which made her think of intervening before even the hostess did. She recognized the predatory set of Cassius's body—so similar to some unplaced shadow in her mind—and knew that trouble was brewing. "I've fought dremora, and they'd kill a woman without thinking. Vile creatures, and ones that haven't the smallest trace of honor. I would never lower myself to their level."

"I find it hard to believe that you've bested a dremora," Cassius darkly replied, the knight completely oblivious to the man's dangerous undertone. "And they are not dishonorable for killing a woman if she is a combatant."

"I assure you that I've killed many dremora," the knight bragged.

"Then they were only Churls," Cassius smugly replied. "But I'm betting that you're a liar."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Dremora are separated into ranks," Portia explained. "They refer to themselves as the 'kyn', and most ranks are an elaboration on that word. Churls are the weakest dremora, and the Valkynaz are the highest. They personally serve Mehrunes Dagon and are quite powerful." The knight didn't seem particularly interested in her small speech, but Cassius did. She found him watching her with a calm, contemplative expression, his interest clearly reflected in the way that the knight's boasts lost his attention.

"You are correct," he stated. "I'm curious as to where you learned your information."

"I've also read about the ranks somewhere before," the knight interrupted. "But what I remember most clearly is that the dremora are loyal to the prince of destruction, or whatever he fancies himself as. Their honor ends where his does, and I haven't heard anything about Dagon that makes him sound like a worthy fighter. All brute strength and barbarity. Oblivion is probably a world of mad dogs stabbing each other in the back for power."

"You speak in ignorance!" Cassius bitingly ground out. "Prizing power does not make someone a lesser fighter. You would not last five seconds in Oblivion, and it's not because someone would stab you in the back..." The man looked ready to explode, and he clearly wanted to say more, but Horace poured him wine and gave him a pointed look that only Portia caught. She didn't know what would happen if the anger in Cassius tensed form escaped his hold, and she didn't want to. Whatever had offended the man, she wanted to fix it as soon as possible, and possibly gain his favor in the process, although it seemed to her that she already had his respectful consideration.

"Oblivion is not as chaotic as you think," Portia stated, drawing numerous eyes toward her, for much of the table had already been eavesdropping on the not-so-subtle argument between the knight and Cassius. "I understand where you're coming from, sir, but Mehrunes Dagon rules his world on a principle that doesn't lead to chaos. It's called Doirtem, and I don't have an exact translation for it, but hopefully my explanation makes sense. The term refers to the belief that the strong rule the weak and enforce order so that they can work together as one force. In a way, you're right when you say that it relies on brute strength, for the word implies that the strong should dominate and control others, but it doesn't result in chaos, and really, it's not so different from what powerful rulers do here, merely harsher."

The table grew silent as people digested what Portia had shared, and for her part, she retreated to eating in order to brush off the awkwardness of her comments, for her words were not popular ones, however true. Let them think what they wanted. She was confident that she'd made the right choice in talking, for like many social blunders in these settings, people quickly returned to the mundane in order to overlook the fault and return to their pleasantries. After all, controversial subjects did not go well with this sort of mixed company, although in a smaller group, it would have been quite acceptable. Truly, the host looked interested in pursuing the topic, but not as interested as Cassius. Long after people began ignoring Portia, he could not look elsewhere.

"You must own some rather unique books," he told her.

"I like to read about possible opponents," she returned. "I don't like going into combat in ignorance. That's a dangerous hobby."

"Are you saying that you're planning on fighting the prince of destruction?" Cassius joked with an almost cruel twist to his amused lips.

"I might fight dremora," Portia corrected. "I already have once, and I found myself woefully unprepared. I won't be caught off guard again. As for Mehrunes Dagon," she mused, "I doubt that he's all brute force as has been suggested, but I'd still like to avoid him. He would crush me. I merely like to think that I could draw some blood before my death." She felt swallowed by Cassius's presence as she stared into his pupils, their blackness surrounding her.

"Would you join me for a walk, my lady?" he asked, and something told Portia to say no, but this was what she was here for, and backing down now was out of the question. She had already lost to this man in one area, and she would not be defeated in another.

"I would be delighted," she smiled, rising from her chair as the official part of the meal came to a close. Already, the host was taking people for a tour of his weapon collection, and Horace was heatedly discussing something with a nobleman in the room's corner while several women laughed over a joke in the entryway. It was a perfect time to disappear, and so Portia allowed her hand to be engulfed by Cassius's as he led her our into the moonlight of the garden. She did not understand why she allowed him to touch her in such a familiar fashion as she followed him, noting how his dark clothing, skin, and hair made him blend into the surrounding bushes and trees, small yellow flowers brushing against Portia's sandals as she walked. No one would see them here, on the stone bench where her guide paused and sat, taking her with him almost against her will, but he did not seem malicious as he stared at her. There was more curiosity than aggression, although it was tempered with the intensity that she expected from him.

"Your defense of Oblivion was not welcomed by the other guests," he stated.

"No, it wasn't," she agreed. "But they shouldn't make false claims about something just because they dislike it. That never changes the facts, and since Mehrunes is the enemy of the empire, people should bother to know the truth about him." Cassius made a thoughtful sound from within his throat and stared into the distance.

"Still, your viewpoint is unexpected," he finally said. "Where did you learn about Doirtem? I have never heard it mentioned in any book, and I pride myself on knowing such things. I too find Oblivion to be...of interest." Portia had no idea that his eyes were running over her body as she crossed her legs, her white gown making her appear luminous in the night, whereas he was almost invisible. They sat together looking like polar opposites, yet an odd sense of connection lulled Portia into complacency concerning their private and isolated encounter. It felt like they had done this before, although she was sure that they hadn't.

"Not all books are readily available to the general public," Portia told him. "But they're there if people only looked."

"And your interest is enough to make you look?" Cassius questioned. There was an edge to his voice that made Portia feel as though he were baiting her, but that made no sense. "Surely you don't think that your chances of fighting Mehrunes Dagon are _that_ great."

"No," she admitted with a small chuckle. "I'm not paranoid, if that's what you're implying. Like you, I simply find the topic interesting. At first, I thought exactly as that knight does. I even hated Oblivion and Mehrunes, but I forced myself to read about him anyway, and the more I read, the more I realized that there is more to his world than I want to admit. No matter how much he..." Portia shook her head with a humorless smile. "I suppose that a healthy dose of respect for your enemy is a good idea."

"Of course." She had not been looking at Cassius, but somehow she knew that he was about to touch her even before she felt his fingertips against her neck. He was brushing hair over her shoulder, exposing her pale skin to the moonlight, and his hand trailed over her collar bone in a chillingly controlled movement that made her freeze. "So fragile," he mused.

"What do you mean?" Portia asked.

"The human body is so fragile. Take your neck for instance. One snap and everything could be over." Portia shuddered and lifted a hand, catching his wrist and stilling his movement back toward her neck. "I did not mean to make you uncomfortable," he chuckled, but Portia knew that he was lying. Her hold loosened and his fingers brushed across her jugular. "I am merely marveling at how someone in such an exposed position can talk of her enemy without fear, but then again, you're not fearless. You're just very resilient."

"No one is fearless."

"True, my lady, very true. You are wise to respect Oblivion and its power." Laughter somewhere to their right alerted them to approaching company, and Portia took the opportunity to stand.

"It is late," she observed.

"Not so late that you cannot spare me a moment," Cassius countered. He slowly stood and moved closer to her, employing all of his menacing influence. "I was not expecting you to be here, but I'm glad that you surprised me. You've made the evening better."

"Flattery does not suit you like if does your friend," Portia dryly commented, becoming more defensive by the second. He was closing in on her.

"I am not a flatterer. I am merely stating the truth, which you seem to have so much interest in—a strange disposition for someone as secretive as yourself." Portia didn't understand his meaning as he offered her his arm, which she looped her own through. She didn't want to, but something about his compelling nature led her to boldly lock bodies with him, as if daring him to prove her suspicions concerning his dangerous intentions true. He was not displeased as she set the walking pace and led him this time.

"I had a lovely evening, Cassius," Portia said. "I'm sure that I'll see you again, and perhaps by then my bruises will have healed."

"Eager to acquire more?" he teased.

"Don't be so sure of yourself. That was the knight's greatest fault, and it doesn't suit you. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, my lady, and I do not underestimate you." He kissed her hand with a smirk that she felt against her skin. It was like in her dream, only real, and with a suppressed shudder, Portia's ghostly white figure made a straight path for her bedroom. She had almost enjoyed the man's company for those brief moments where their shared opinions had been pitted against the rest of the crowd, but that had been fleeting and wasn't strong enough to upset her unease. There was something about that man that drew her closer despite her desire to stay away from him.


	19. Chapter 19: Watching from the Dark

Chapter 18:

"I don't like this, Arelius," Lucretia commented in a near whisper. She stood to the side of the window, her sheer, purple nightgown alluringly draping over her barely hidden body. The bedroom was devoid of light as she used the stars above to view the streets outside, her proud body refusing to shiver as a cool breeze touched her skin. Her husband lurked behind her, and only strode closer to wrap his arms around her and share his warmth. She felt the familiar curve of his jaw resting against the side of her face, and leaned into his touch as his mouth moved to her ear.

"You've seen them again?" he asked.

"No," she admitted. "But I can feel their eyes watching us, and this is the third night in a row. I tried casting a detect life spell, and for a few moments I saw three figures behind the building over there, but they've vanished. My spell skills are not to blame either. Something else is at work, blocking my magic." Arelius pulled her further into the room, and she could tell by his silence that he was concerned and thinking over the situation.

"I notified the watch captain yesterday," he spoke. "Hopefully he has news for us tomorrow, but I wouldn't hold my breath. We're in the middle of something very dangerous."

"Does Portia know?" Lucretia asked, removing gold earrings from beneath her hair as she sauntered toward the bed. "If we are being watched, surely she is in even more danger than we are. I dread to think what could happen if we aren't careful." Arelius pulled a curtain over the window and moved to join his wife, sitting on the edge of the bed with her at his side, his hands finding hers and caressing them.

"She knows the dangers," Arelius assured. "But there is never any way to guarantee safety. Are you thinking of sending the boys away?" He could barely discern his wife's outline in the darkness, but he felt her hair brush his shoulder as she nodded.

"Yes, if the situation worsens. I would love to know whether the mages or someone more sinister is watching us, but I've heard no news, and you clearly haven't either if you haven't told me." She began untying the front of her robe as she turned to crawl onto the bed, her toes running over her husband's thighs as she did so.

"Dear?" Arelius soothed, lying down and gently guiding her to rest against his side. "You haven't forgone your usual precautions, have you?" She smiled slyly in the dark and nestled closer to his warm body.

"I still know how to defend myself, and you're being ridiculous in asking. I've never stopped my exercises, and I still sleep with a knife under the pillow. Your work for the empire is more important than worrying about me. You know that I'll be safe."

"You never know, but I admit that I wouldn't want to be the man to try and grab you in the dark," he chuckled, causing Lucretia to plant kisses along his neck.

"I believe you tried that once as a joke, and it ended poorly."

"I called you a banshee."

"And I'll never forget that." The two held each other and slowly fell asleep, but even in relaxation, the slightest disturbance in the house caused both to awaken. To know that someone was watching their home lent a menacing chill to every shifting shadow, and Lucretia stiffened more than once on an impulse to go to the children's room, but Arelius told her to rest. It was his watchful eyes and soothing voice that finally laid her fears to rest and caused her to sleep deeply, for he would keep his senses alert in her stead. It was in his nature to protect his family, and he'd shouldered the extra responsibility well, knowing at the alter that he was more vulnerable with children about; however, he never regretted his decision to settle down, and like the self-appointed guardian that he was, his patient manner waited through the long hours of the night, daring any intruders to foolishly enter his domain.

***********

Ruined Cloak hunkered down in the alley and waited, his two companions behind him and so silent that their breathing didn't even give them away. They were watching the manor across the street with its locked gates and bolted lower windows, merely observing the manner of the house's occupants as the day disappeared. It was a fruitful watch, for they had easily discerned household patterns by watching candles float by upstairs windows, and servants going about their tasks. Like clockwork, the manor was secured at 9 pm, all but two servants were dismissed, the children would light their room and stay up late until forced to bed, and sometimes the room in the left corner of the courtyard was lit well into the night, as if someone were working late. Much was left up to speculation, but Ruined Cloak was pleased to have what he considered the most valuable information: bedroom location.

His lips curled into a smile as he saw a figure appear on a balcony above the manor's courtyard. Her features were lost in the dark, but it was not the wife, for the woman's hair was pulled back, which the wife never did once the servants were gone. Rather, it was the other woman that he knew lived here, and the one that his master so wanted. She often spent time on the balcony before bed, undeterred by passing guards that might notice and disapprove of her nightly attire, but master had said that she was different. She had to be if she had stolen from him, which although Mehrunes had never explicitly stated, Ruined Cloak was safe in assuming. His master's anger and almost uncontrollable urge to shadow and confront the woman was evidence enough, and the chaos sphere would never have left Oblivion with permission. No, she had stolen from a prince, and now she would suffer for it.

Sometimes Ruined Cloak saw a similar woman leaving the house well after nightfall, and for some time, he had assumed that the thief and this night stalker were one in the same, but that couldn't be, for the latter was smaller and had short hair, as he'd discovered on closer inspection. He hadn't managed a direct view of the woman, but that was one of his priorities, for he wanted to know who else was in that house, especially if infiltration was in the imminent future. Horace was working on gaining information from the Arcane University, and if the sphere wasn't there, then either the thief or the Blades in general possessed it. Arelius, according to his source, was a high ranking Blade, which meant that even if he didn't have the sphere, he likely knew who did, and if he wouldn't talk, there were always children and a wife to use for persuasion. That would be entertaining.

"Magic..." one of his comrades lowly hissed. Ruined Cloak too felt magicka settling over their bodies, and with annoyance, he quickly began uttering a counter spell. Detect Life. Who would suspect their presence? Then again, they were dealing with Blades, so perhaps his prey was more alert than he'd given them credit for, but he found that difficult to believe, for he'd never been uncovered in his subterfuge before. Deciding to play the situation with caution, he had his men move to another alley while he remained where he was, now keeping an eye on much more than the house. He remembered what had happened the last time he'd been caught off guard...

_Her knife lashed outward, its swiping motion catching the back of his right hand and causing him to drop his own weapon—not that it was a problem, for he'd simply use destruction magic on this damned dark elf. He muttered a spell and lifted his hand to throw fire at the woman's grim face, her red eyes flashing in determination as the magic flared in his fingertips. She would die and pay for attempting to stop the Dawn, but instead of fear, she displayed a smirk of dark satisfaction as he threw his spell. _

_She ignored him in favor of fighting one of the sailors that had spotted her amid the ship's chaotic environment, and that too was her fault, for she'd set fire to the planks. Ruined Cloak did not understand why she exposed her defenseless back to his spell, but too late he realized that her body was warded. The spell reversed upon touching her, and so it turned on its master, shooting back into his already bleeding hand and searing his nerves. He'd never known such pain, although it was almost welcomed, for bleeding over the cause was an honorable infliction, and it was nothing that he couldn't handle. He didn't scream, but his body trembled with the magic that had devoured his primary hand, and his fingers were so mangled that he resorted to his left hand in retrieving his poisoned dagger and chasing the elf. She would die by his hand alone..._

Ruined Cloak felt no anger as he continued watching the manor, fully aware that his right hand would never wholly recover. Sometimes it jerked uncontrollably, and other times it tingled with the reminder of past pain, but he never let anger consume him. He calmly imagined murdering the elf in her sleep, even drinking her blood, and it was with almost detached contemplation that he decided to kill her slowly. He appreciated her for having given him his first real battle wound, and as a man who favored the idea of being a martyr, he couldn't hate her for granting him a taste of immense pain. She would bring him honor through her death, and her blood would be used for the gate to send Mehrunes back to Oblivion, where he could organize his armies for the coming dawn of a new era, but first Ruined Cloak had to find the elf. He had a feeling that they would meet again, for the lady had been working for someone when she attempted to kill him, so it was only a matter of time before fate again brought them together.

"You there, what are you doing?" The voice jerked Ruined Cloak from his thoughts as he peered into the darkness and noticed a guard standing near another alleyway's entrance. It was not possible that the man had noticed them of his own accord and without magic, so perhaps someone had tipped him off to their presence. The spell caster? Maybe. "Come out with your hands up," the guard ordered. Either the man had to be disposed of quietly, or the spies needed to escape, the latter being the preferable and even easier option since they wished to remain undetected; however, Ruined Cloak was not gifted with the most controlled of companions, and after weeks of being cooped up in tight spaces with nothing to do, they were decidedly anxious to express their disgust with the empire. Hence a guard proved a tempting target.

"Fools," Ruined Cloak growled as he began darting toward the guard, actually hoping to move and save the man's life, but he was too far from the alley.

"There's more than one of them!" the guard was yelling when his windpipe was torn open by a single slice of curved metal. Ruined Cloak wanted to rip the ears off of his assistants for their indiscretion as he neared the scene, the guard's body now on the street for all to see.

"Idiots!" Ruined Cloak grabbed his guilty subordinate and roughly slammed him against the nearest wall. "You've compromised us."

"We've got a man down!" a voice called in the darkness, causing Ruined Cloak to sneer. He pulled the man before him away from the wall and propelled him further down the street, his other assistant sulkily bringing up the rear of their hasty exit. No time was wasted as they ran for cover and cast invisibility spells that allowed them to neatly bypass the rush of guards that appeared to inspect their murdered friend. There was cursing and orders to fan out, but the culprits were already gone, keeping well ahead of their pursuers.

"Master will _not_ be pleased," Ruined Cloak reprimanded his men, and he was pleased to see that they acted sufficiently chastised. They would answer to the master, and hopefully the prince allowed their punishment to be distributed by his most faithful of servants.

*************

Mehrunes Dagon sat in a chair in the corner of his bedroom, peeling an orange and listening to Ruined Cloak's soft footsteps nearing his door. Ah, Ruined Cloak, someone that he could count on. The man was subservient to a fault, and so it was only natural that the murderer knocked several times and soundlessly waited to be acknowledged, unlike Horace, who almost always wore an air of impatience when dealing with others. The Imperial's humble attitude was a veneer over his true intentions, which Mehrunes fully realized, but not because he was a great observer of others. No, he was actually less perceptive than either Horace or Ruined Cloak when it came to everyday life, but he was in no way dense. He simply didn't care enough to pay attention most of the time, but even he knew that Horace was pragmatically ambitious, for he recognized a kindred spirit when he saw one.

"Enter," Mehrunes stated, and the door to his chambers opened, revealing the carefully cloaked form of his subordinate. The man quickly sealed the door and approached with a small bow.

"They have been properly chastised, my lord."

"Good. I do not want another incident to occur until we're closer to our goal," Mehrunes said while running a hand through his black hair. It was still odd to reach up and feel hair on his head, for he rarely used his more human form, and sometimes he grew rather annoyed at having to worry about ebony strands dangling before his eyes.

"They should have known better," Ruined Cloak commented.

"The mistake is done," Mehrunes dismissed. "And I'm sure that they won't forget their lesson." He finished peeling the orange and began eating the slices one by one, his tongue carefully moving over the fruit's texture. He slowly decided that he liked the fruit, but it would be difficult to obtain on a regular basis since it came from the furthest reaches of the empire.

"How much time do we have left?" the prince asked as he searched for another orange.

"The stars will be aligned in another three weeks, my lord. That would be the optimum time to open a portal," Ruined Cloak explained. "It will be more difficult than before since the dragonfires are weaker."

"Shouldn't that make your task easier?" Mehrunes questioned.

"Not necessarily. The dragonfires create a counter balance to Oblivion, and the tension between the two was once so tight that locating and widening a tear was not difficult since they were in such contrast to the general magicka field, but now the tension is lessening. The spell itself will be just as easy to cast, but locating an adequate gap in space on which to cast it will be harder. The tension made them easier to find, my lord, but I will still be successful, I am sure. I merely wish to wait for the most auspicious time to conduct our efforts."

"Do you require anything for the task?" Mehrunes pressed. "I'm sure that our dear friend Horace would love to accommodate you." Ruined Cloak smirked beneath his hood and was tempted to laugh but did not.

"We will need blood, and I've already found the perfect donor."

"Then there shouldn't be any problems," the prince mused, confident that their plans would be executed with hardly a snag. "Keep inside for the next few nights. I don't want the authorities to trace the murder to us. Discovery would be an annoyance that I will not tolerate. I trust that I've made myself perfectly clear, and tell your men that if they make another blunder of this magnitude, I will deal with them personally." He was thinking of Portia and how inconvenient it would be if she saw him as linked to a guard's murder. There would certainly be no more time for fun and games with his precious, human thief.

"I understand, my lord," Ruined Cloak said with another bow. "Please let me know if there is anything else that I can do. I am yours to command."

"And you'll be rewarded for your efforts when I return with my armies, servant. You may go." The man obediently left Mehrunes alone in his chambers, making the prince nearly rolled his eyes at the loyalty of the Mythic Dawn. They trusted him to remake the empire with them at its helm, but he didn't give a damn about creating a new government, for he knew that the other princes would never tolerate his ruling of the entire world. Even if the other heir was found and killed, his stay would not be permanent due to his brothers, but the effects of his brief reign would be, and he planned to use this window of opportunity for such an end.

Mainly, he looked forward to seeing his armies sweep across the land and claim it in his name, wreaking havoc and destruction on the poor unsuspecting humans. It would be satisfying and renew the fear and respect of mortals for not only himself but the daedric princes in general, and it was about time. And after his fun? Well, he'd probably be content to return to Oblivion for a few decades and listen to his fellow princes gripe and complain about his annoying tendency to interfere with Tamriel. They should expect that since he was the prince of destruction and ambition, and it wasn't like they never played with mortals, the hypocrites.

Mehrunes leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to doze as he thought about the future. He never apologized for who he was or what he did, and he wouldn't do so now. Soon he would be returned to the pinnacle of his power, and all he needed to do so was the heir's death and his lost chaos sphere. _Where did you hide it, thief?_ The only response was a brief presence passing over his own, and he again wondered if he couldn't somehow force the spirit to reveal itself. He needed to work on that.


	20. Chapter 20: One and the Same

So here is another chapter, finally! I'm getting ready to move into my first house, so the update has been a bit delayed in coming, but I hope that the length makes up for that. I personally really like this chapter, but let me know what you think, pointers, the usual, etc.

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Chapter 19:

Arelius stared down at the body with its open throat and glazed eyes, his vision sweeping over the wreaked human life that lay a minute's walk from his home. The guard's helmet had fallen loose in the attack, and it sat several feet away where it had rolled, a few specks of blood marring the inside, but it was the sword that drew the most attention, for it remained in its scabbard. The man had not drawn his weapon, so either he'd been caught by surprise, or his opponent had been much too fast for him to handle. Either way, it was not a good start to the day.

"How long ago?" Arelius asked. Several guards were preparing a stretcher to remove the body while others kept curious citizens away from the crime scene.

"Late evening, early morning," one suggested. "He's been there a while."

"And no one saw anything?"

"People heard the guard yelling at someone, but other than that, I'm afraid that we've got nothing," a new voice chimed in, and Arelius turned to see a captain of the watch approaching him. The man's distinct armor shone in the sunlight of early morning as he reached out and shook Arelius's hand. "Arelius," he greeted.

"Sevor," the blade returned. "What happened?"

"We were watching the house as you requested, and one of my men thought that he saw someone. We heard him warn that there were multiple attackers, but then he was dead, and we haven't found a damn trace of his killers. I'm sorry. Your wife was be in an awful state."

"She'll manage," Arelius stated, eyes flickering toward the dead body as it was lifted from the ground. "I'm sorry for the loss of your man. He was young."

"And should have waited for backup before confronting the suspects. I warned him about the possible danger, but the youngest ones have the most to prove." The man shook his head with a sigh. "I hate to lose even one, but that's the life of a captain, as you know." Arelius briefly imagined Portia with her wide eyes and stuttering mouth as she tried to explain her unintentional bloodshed. The man that she'd killed had looked as young as this victim.

"Are you launching an investigation?" he asked the other captain.

"Of course. I'm here to question the locals. Hopefully someone saw something. If not, this could be a very trying task, but I suppose that you'll also be making inquiries..."

"I won't step on your toes," Arelius assured. "But I will use my resources."

"And I'll keep you informed. Give my regard to your wife." Arelius agreed and returned to his home to find Lucretia waiting in the foyer, her arms crossed over her delicate chest as she chided the children for running through the house. She looked calm as ever, but the messy state of her hair was enough to betray her haste that morning, and the entire house was on edge because of it. Being a woman of pride, she would fix her image before more of the servants arrived, but for now she merely allowed Arelius to pull her into a hug.

"I suppose that the watch gave you their usual promises," she smartly commented.

"They'll do their best, but we won't rely on them if that's what has you concerned," Arelius offered.

"I'm not worried," Lucretia sniffed. "I've already had the window locks checked, and the servants will get a talking to when they arrive. No one will enter or leave this house without my permission." Arelius released her, not wishing to extend more comfort than was wanted, and allowed Lucretia to continue with her tasks. He followed behind her as she ordered about the servants, her control quickly solidifying into the usual, rolling ease of daily life, and her hands unconsciously moving to fix her hair.

"The children are being sent to their grandmother's for a few days," she told Arelius. "I think it prudent, unless you've some objection."

"I'll kiss them before they leave then," he agreed with her. Indeed, he would feel much better knowing that the children were out of harm's way. "I'll have Tamil escort them once they're packed." Lucretia nodded and turned her attention to the courtyard where her two boys were busy chasing each other with sticks. They looked so much like their father... "Dear," Arelius soothed. "I'm leaving. Watch the house, and try not to worry too much." But that was easier said than done, for neither of them believed for a moment that the guard's death had been a random murder.

************

Portia stood in the aisle, her eyes scanning the massive bookshelf before her as she searched for another tome on the daedric language. She'd come across several difficult words in her usual studies, and her hopes of understanding them were pinned on finding an older book with detailed definitions, but so far, she'd found nothing in the palace library's extensive collection. And what a collection it was. There were books here that hadn't been opened in what she suspected were era's, and some only remained whole thanks to the magical care of archivists. Her fingers touched a worn spine as she tried to read the book's title, but the lettering had largely disintegrated.

"Damn books," she grumbled, moving further down the aisle. She could always ask for assistance, but she didn't want the librarians to know what she was researching, for daedric studies in light of the current political situation was extremely unpopular, and she was no scholar to have an excuse for reading on such topics. Of course, she'd admitted her interest at the dinner party, but hopefully the incident had been forgotten amidst the tipsy state of most guests by the evening's end. The only one that hadn't disapproved of her words was Cassius, and that he too found a dark topic interesting did not surprise her in the least given the man's nature. She could still imagine the bloodlust in his eyes from the day of their sparing, which had been clue enough, but during the party, he had almost been gentle with her. True, his words had been a bit morbid, but the soft and probing quality of his touch had made her allow his fingers on her neck, and the tips had traveled oh so tantalizingly across her skin.

_Focus_. She was investigating Cassius and Horace, and just because that meant spending time with them didn't mean that she should allow Cassius such liberties. No one touched her without permission, so the fact that intimacy had been implied through his actions annoyed her, and not only because of the party's gossiping eyes. That was merely the icing on the cake, for his physical closeness had been inappropriately bold considering how little they knew of each other, and proper decorum stood against such actions, leaving other guests to speculate. It wasn't that Portia believed in strict social dogma, but she was playing a role that put her in a position where negative rumors could potentially harm her standing, and a dirty image was not something that she would appreciate.

Beyond that, the entire 'let's take a walk' scenario puzzled Portia, for Cassius didn't behave in such an eager and interested manner with others. In fact, he seemed to keep his distance from most people, yet the way that he engaged her suggested a strong acquaintance, for only familiar people would accompany one another into a garden late at night, or make flippant and sometimes questionable comments. Denying Cassius would have been the proper move, but Portia wished to worm her way into his world for investigative purposes, for she could spot a shady character when she saw one, and Cassius could not possibly be innocent. So she had gone with the diplomat, but she wondered if she had unwittingly sent him the wrong message in doing so.

_That's part of the game_, she consoled herself, but it didn't mute the irritation concerning her lack of control over the situation. It wasn't that she felt helpless, but Cassius forever seemed to catch her off guard, and she had enough to handle without his surprises. After all, Mehrunes, the damned prince of Oblivion, was somewhere in this city, hunting her. _That_ was the core of her issues as of late, and she'd been meaning to investigate the matter further—perhaps split from her body again in an attempt to discover his exact location, but the task was a daunting one. She hadn't dared to mindlessly sleep since she'd seen him in his new bedroom, for she couldn't risk discovery--not that Mehrunes knew who the 'being' was, but if he found out, she might as well jump from the city walls.

_Stop being weak_, she chided herself, growing more annoyed as she realized that finding the desired daedric book would be nearly impossible. Perhaps Gilthan could help, but she didn't want to drag him into suspicion at the university, and she felt that her work needed consistency and true dedication to warrant such an action. Currently, she'd been so preoccupied with Blade business that she'd hardly touched a book in days, but she had never quit her studies since language was necessary for spying. Subterfuge was still the plan, but one to be implemented only after she carefully explored her newest ties to Mehrunes, which was a day that fast approached. She actually thought that she was becoming quite adept at daedric, for the more she read, the easier it became, and now she was slowly recalling words that she'd seen in Mehrunes' palace.

Grabbing one of the library's rolling ladders, Portia propped it against a shelf and began climbing it, one rung at a time, hands periodically reaching out to examine a book. There was actually a book on dremora culture, and she wondered how much of the text had been fabricated since no human had ever studied dremora in their homeland. Perhaps she would check into that at some later date, but the thought fazed out as a creeping sensation slithered up her spine, causing her head to instinctually turn left. She frowned and recognized this feeling from before—from dinner—when she could have sworn that she'd felt a faint pull as the last guests were arriving.

"This is the section here, sir," a librarian explained, and Portia watched as two people stepped into her aisle. _Cassius_, she realized, eyes zeroing in on the smartly dressed diplomat. He appeared genuinely surprised to see her on the ladder, but his features quickly rearranged into a smirk as she gripped the ladder for stability. Well, it _was_ her job to get closer to the man, but why did he need to appear everywhere that she happened to be? She wasn't sure if fortune or misery were smiling on her as she began descending to the floor, wondering what today would bring.

**************

It was his lucky day.

Mehrunes nearly grinned in unexpected delight as he realized who was sharing the aisle with him. The librarian was quickly dismissed, and rudely at that, but the prince could have cared less as he strode forward with every intent of enjoying his afternoon. After all, his servants were busy with their respective tasks, and that left him time to examine the palace's book collection on Oblivion and daedra, which was partly Portia's influence, for she'd sparked his curiosity when mentioning her readings. What did mortals write about his kind? Hopefully it would be utter rubbish and make his digression worthwhile through laughable ideas.

"What an unexpected surprise," he greeted Portia, who was now on the floor, her green eyes hitting him with the acuteness that he'd come to expect from his intelligent opponent. As always, it was difficult not to hint at his identity in order to taunt her, but he would keep himself under control, Ruined Cloak's warnings running through his head. He did not take orders from others, but the mage had a point in stressing discretion, and Horace backed up that emphasis, especially given the time clock that they were under. The time to destroy this lovely woman would come soon enough...

"What brings you to the library, Cassius?" Portia asked while tossing her thick braid over a shoulder.

"You made the collection on Oblivion sound fascinating," Mehrunes replied, hands behind his back as he carelessly glanced over the books. He had planned to look through a few, but he wasn't much of a reader when it came down to it, so his interest was quickly diverted to Portia. "I came to see its quality for myself." _And found something much better_, he added with a heavy dose of twisted pleasure.

"I'm afraid that I've already taken the best books," Portia half-smiled. "I was hoping that I could find an older dictionary, but no such luck."

"Dictionary?" Mehrunes questioned, curious as to her reasons for needing one. She couldn't possibly be learning daedric. He couldn't remember the last time that he'd met a mortal who understood his language, but then again, this woman had shocked him before.

"Yes," Portia sighed. "I need a dictionary. I mean, I have one, but it's missing certain words, and so the passage that I'm reading has me stumped. It would be easier if I knew someone with language skills, but I have yet to meet one."

"What language is the book in?" Mehrunes asked.

"Daedric," Portia answered, obviously weighing her words. She was waiting for his reaction, and he knew it, but he only tilted his head to the side and smirked. So she was learning his language, and what was the purpose behind doing that? He could ask, and he would, but he was certain that the answer would only be a half-truth or even possibly a lie.

"Why are you learning daedric?" She smiled disarmingly, hands on her hips.

"I'm sure that you find it odd, or perhaps you don't," she quickly corrected. "I don't think that you'll condemn me like others would. You _are_ in this aisle." Her smile could have been forced, but he had a hard time telling, and not for the first time, he had the urge to grab her feminine form and force her to speak the plain truth. He was not accustomed to having to talk and carefully pry information from someone like this, even if he was finding a flare for it. "Like I said before," she continued, "I find the topic interesting, and I've been to daedric ruins before. Actually being able to read what's on those walls would be great, and there are the books to consider. The best books here are written in daedric and several hundred years old..."

"Merot ke mnom?" Mehrunes asked with a smile, causing Portia's eyes to momentarily widen in shock, and how he reveled in her loss for words. He stepped closer to her with insufferably smugness as she stared at him, her clothing slightly disheveled by the day's sword lessons, but the unkept edge suiting her.

"Merot ke namnom," she replied, returning to her controlled expression. "It is not difficult," she then repeated in common tongue. "So you also speak daedric." Her pronunciation was beautiful, and her recovery quick, making Mehrunes particularly pleased as he listened to the daedric syllables flow from her mouth. It felt like months since he'd spoken in his favored tongue, and hearing it from her was...mesmerizing. He couldn't explain why her words affected him so, perhaps even exciting him a bit as he considered her dedication to her quest. She had decided to battle him, and unlike so many others, she was learning everything that there was to her opponent.

"Yes, I speak daedric. I'm an unprofessional scholar of sorts," he told her. "And Morrowind has more daedric ruins than Cryodiil, making the language advantageous to know. I'm impressed that you're teaching yourself. Not many possess that dedication. Vinro begat machta."

"I'm impressive?" Portia genuinely smiled. "And you said that you and Horace have little in common."

"Hmpf," Mehrunes scoffed, disliking the comparison to that weasel. "Perhaps I can help you with this passage of yours," he then offered, forgetting about the chaos sphere for the time being. He couldn't sense it on her now—although a slight pull was making him crave close proximity to her, but he attributed that to his budding fixation with this female ex-guard and her interesting past. She did not seem like someone to be bothered by accidental murder, but Ruined Cloak had assured him that his last victim spoke the truth...

"I have the book over here," Portia told him, leading the way toward the loft. Mehrunes' vision drank in her appearance as she walked with the sure stride of a hunter, and he was sure that such a comparison was appropriate given her prior hand-to-hand attack on him in Oblivion. If she looked closely, she might notice that his left ear was scarred, even in this form, for she'd marred him by ripping free his earring. Of course, magic could have mended the wound, but he would have none of that. He was no longer ashamed to bear an injury from a human thief now that he'd met her and witnessed her survival drive. Wounds from worthy enemies were nothing to be regretted or hidden.

"This is where I usually work," she told him as they ascended several stairs into a small room where plush chairs sat around a small table. The room was vacant except for a stack of books beside one chair, where Portia deposited herself and pulled open a large tome. It completely covered her lap as she found her marked place and set it on the table, bending forward to pour over its contents. "Here," she indicated, and Mehrunes pulled up a chair to sit directly beside her. "This line is giving me a headache."

"Read it to me," Mehrunes requested, reclining and watching as she pulled the book back onto her lap. "It will be easier than both of us trying to read at once." _And I want to hear you speak daedric_. Mehrunes allowed his head to lull to the side in relaxation as Portia began speaking, her words molding over him until he decided that daedric from her was far more becoming than when his minions spoke it. They were rough, guttural, and abrupt in manner and speech, but she gave the language the roll and lightness of a human tongue. It had been a long time since he'd heard daedric in such gentle tones, and even Nocturnal couldn't spin the words with such a soothing touch, which was saying something since she'd once read him stories in order to calm his anger. That had been when he was much younger. They'd all been younger and had shared a plane instead of creating their own realms. So very long ago...

"Cassius?" Portia questioned, having ended the paragraph.

"Keep going," he ordered, and although she frowned at his commanding tone, her voice soon filled the air, causing his eyelids to sink lower in contentment. He silently encouraged her for some time before her speech hitched, causing him to glance at her in question. Her finger was on the page, and those pink lips of hers were turned downward ever so slightly, revealing her displeasure as she puzzled over a word.

"Grimloc..." she breathed, pondering.

"It's a large lava flow running near...it's a lava flow," Mehrunes confided, almost revealing more than he'd intended. Portia was watching him with searching emeralds beneath black lashes, and it almost made him smirk, for she suspected that his words were important, but she could not find the damning piece of the puzzle that would make the picture clear to her. Oh, she was smart, but if she didn't completely trust him, which he felt was evident from her behavior and an appropriate response to his persona, then why did she never try to avoid him? She had been working for someone when she came to Oblivion—perhaps the Blades, and maybe she still was. Oh, the possibilities...but he couldn't have her pushing him away, and so he distracted her by explaining all that she had read, to which she quietly and politely listened, the book still open on her lap.

"That's very helpful," she thanked him, and the warmth in her voice made Mehrunes question just how suspicious she was, for she was skilled at looking calm and collected. The uncertainty of this game never failed to keep him engaged. "If you have nowhere else to be, there was another section that was giving me problems," she continued with an inviting expression. She wanted him to stay, and Mehrunes wouldn't disappoint her, although in the back of his mind, he was wondering if she would agree to spar with him after this. Nothing would uplift his day more unless Horace found information on the chaos sphere, and even then, he'd prefer to hear a report later and spend his current time with this woman.

"I'm glad that I can be of use," he told Portia with a slight smile. "Please continue." She went back to reading aloud, and this time Mehrunes decided to indulge himself a little more than usual. With daedric in the background, and in such a lovely manner, he opened his mind to Oblivion, which he had not yet done due to the possibility of someone detecting the connection, but who would detect him? At first, he had thought that the mages might, but now that he was here in Tamriel, they seemed harmless enough, and he was in the library, not Horace's house, so being tracked wouldn't be an issue. That settled the matter, and so his power began to subtly flow and pump through his veins with the aid of his chaos sphere, his mind brushing across his dominion.

The connection was slight, and it only allowed him to feel the heat and familiarity of his homeland, but the energy pulse thrilled him. He had been restraining himself since coming here, but now, in this setting, he was suddenly tempted beyond control, his hands clenched together on his lap as the the hum of chaos purred deep within his chest. Oblivion. Chaos. It was here, in his hands, reminding him of his hold over the world and its mortals, even as the call of the Deadlands beckoned him to leave this lesser plane for home. He already felt as if he'd been surrounded by common tongue for too long.

"Adno lec..." Portia's voice trailed off, but Mehrunes did not immediately notice. Only when he readied himself for another pulse of energy did her hanging silence strike him, and he might have dismissed it as nothing had it not been for the woman's expression. Her mouth was halfway open, and her eyes went wide in shock before they glazed over, making her appear totally lost to the world. Her entire body was rigid, and her hands gripped the book's edges with such force that he was sure she'd tear a few pages loose.

He did not understand her sudden change in mood and posture, but so enthralled was he with his own power that he wouldn't break his charged state in order to check on her. He wasn't ready to return to a weaker existence, and so he summoned that second wave of energy, the air around him warming with the effort, and his mental pathway to Oblivion widening. This was what he loved about being a daedric prince, and he regarded flashes of his kingdom with pride as he reveled in his own abilities, but what he found as his energy throbbed through him with increasing strength disturbed him. He was not alone, and the longer he channeled power, the more evident that became, for a presence materialized from within the folds of space and nearly collided with him, unseen soft hands pushing off of his chest to avoid closer contact. He could feel that damned being brushing across his mind, trembling in worry and uncertainty as his power enveloped them both.

What was happening? Mehrunes didn't even finish his thought as the being began pulling away, fighting him with all of its strength, but its power was miniscule compared to his own, and so he chased it with tendrils of energy. As his will bent around the spectral, he felt its anger and panic over the intrusion, which made him grin in anticipation of victory. Their connection was as strong as ever, and he could even feel the direction that the being was going, causing his head to jerk in that direction only to find his gaze locked on Portia. The being was moving by her—no, not beyond her, but into her. Mehrunes' eyes widened in stunned realization as the woman leaned further into her chair, sweat trickling down her brow as her eyelids drooped and the book fell from her grasp.

"No..." her words were a barely uttered plea that quickly turned into an angry growl and frown of determination as she fought him, but she didn't know that it was him, or did she? Should he let her know? It was tempting, but no, he couldn't do that—not yet. He released his power and watched as Portia jerked so sharply in freedom that she nearly fell from her chair. Maybe it was too late. Maybe she'd followed the energy back to its source just as he had, but perhaps...

"Cassius?" Portia called, unsure of herself as she straightened in her seat. He stood before her, a hand braced beneath her chin and tilting her head up toward him. He wanted to catch the last glimpse of the fire leaving her body, for while he was not a great admiring of mortals, there was an undeniable beauty to this already attractive woman when she was riled. It was the same quality that had so impressed his mind when she'd wounded him. "I'm sorry," she apologized, a bit dazed. "I don't know what happened. I just...I don't feel well." So she hadn't been able to trace him. That was a relief.

"It's alright," he crooned, still touching her face until she lifted a hand and gently removed his fingers, a spark in her eyes telling him that he'd breached some invisible barrier. "I could help you get home, my lady."

"No," Portia protested. "I'll be fine. I don't know what came over me, but it's gone now." Mehrunes tried to help her stand, but she waved him off and retrieved her fallen book rather than meeting his intense gaze. It was beneath a prince to help a human stand, but he'd tried, and she'd shunned his aid in reply, which did not sit well with him. How dare this mortal...

"I insist that you allow me to help you," Mehrunes pressed, hating every moment of being brushed aside. No one brushed aside the lord of Oblivion.

"I..."

"No," he roughly opposed. "Here; take my arm." She reluctantly did so, her body still clearly unstable and Mehrunes lightly supporting her. The idea of her dependency on him was strangely intoxicating as he led her toward the library's exit, and beyond that, he dared to send small shots of chaotic energy into her body, teasing her with the dread of her spirit being called again.

So this was the spirit that had been haunting him, but why? Why would she seek him out? He could remember her trailing him, even touching him, defying him, searching the palace and testing his patience, growing more confident with time...but why? And how? He tried not to stare at her as they walked, but he had a feeling that his blatant curiosity was showing, even if she didn't say anything. Perhaps she was too shaken to care, but already he felt her strength returning, for she was leaning on him less and less.

_This is the being_, his mind repeated, and leave it to this thief to make his existence more and more complicated. So she had followed and challenged him; that shouldn't have shocked him, for he'd considered a possibly link between thief and spirit before, but discovering that his contemplations were reality was still having an effect. After all, hadn't he grown comfortable with that being? Even inviting it to get closer in his boredom, taunting it in good fun as it laid beneath him while he chose clothing? That was why Portia had felt so familiar during the dance, and that was why he was more at ease with her than he'd expected given her theft. He'd been hunting a thief that had secretly been beneath his nose the entire time! With a mixture of appreciation and loathing, he realized that her hand was pulling away from his arm.

"Thank you for your help, Cassius," she told him. "Until next time."

"If you ever desire help with your daedric, let me know," he absently replied. She left him standing in the street, and he didn't even attempt to follow her. He merely watched her braided hair vanish among the people, his mind furiously working. Now that he knew of their connection, perhaps he could exploit that.

***********

Portia was cleaning the wound on her hip, for the scar had torn loose while at the library, when that unnaturally tenacious power had sucked her out of her own body. She'd felt her consciousness loosening and someone hungrily dragging her away, subtly at first, but once she'd been detected, the tug-of-war had begun in earnest. Cassius probably thought that she was either mentally or physically sick, which would not work in her favor since he seemed to prize strength, and she hadn't even gained anything from the event.

With frustration, she nearly slammed her bundle of dirty bandages on the floor, the pain of her wound and the annoyance of being forcefully summoned bearing down on her mind. She hadn't even been able to track the power source, and what a fooled she'd been to miss the opportunity. The entire goal of still working on daedric and wearing the sphere was to find Mehrunes, not frantically flee from him when he reached out toward her spirit form. After all, he didn't know who the spirit was, and she was dependent on his mood and some whimsical, chaotic power to open their connection. So now she had to somehow sleep when she was irked and troubled, and hope that he tried to call her. The night was looking worse and worse, and all because she had forgotten her mission when she most needed to remember it.

_But Cassius was there...no, no excuses, Portia!_

Now that was the blade in her talking, and it made her smile humorlessly as she realized how easily she was sliding back into her old role. She'd come so far that the man she'd murdered barely came to mind when she touched her sword, but sometimes, when the scabbard hit her hip just right, the pain jolted dark memories to life. He'd never be gone, but perhaps she could ignore him most of the time.

With a sigh, Portia pulled the blankets over her stomach and blew out the candle on her nightstand, marveling at how her afternoon had actually been rather enjoyable considering the company. She had found Cassius to be an attentive listener, and his language help had been invaluable. Of course, she wondered where he'd learned daedric, but he seemed like a man to seek such knowledge if only to scandalize others. Yes, he liked to push the boundaries, even with a lone woman, for she clearly remembered how readily he had accompanied her into a quiet, private corner of the library. She also remembered how she had questioned her decision while at the same time wanting to be alone with him to see if she couldn't garner information from him. What she'd discovered was that he had a gentler side—one that led him to almost doze while listening to a lady read. It had been unexpected to say the least, and not objectionable until he'd decided to touch her, which wouldn't have been so upsetting except for the way that he had seemed to be looking into her very soul.

But the dark diplomat could wait until tomorrow.

Portia's eyes closed, and her breathing evened out as she tried to sleep. She found herself focusing on the sphere, a light charge awakening at her will, and with that small spark, she dove into darkness. She could not say how she found her way, but the decision was quickly stripped from her as a more powerful force captured her own. It was him, and given how strongly his vibes rocked her sleeping consciousness, she had to wonder if he'd been prowling and waiting for her. Well, it was now or never, for the longer he remained in the capitol undetected, the greater the danger to herself. Braving this was no longer optional after the incident at the library, and so she didn't fight his pull. In fact, she ran toward it, hoping to catch him off guard and appear more confident than she was. Whether or not it was working, she was swept away in an almost terrifying frenzy of power that she was not sure she could escape even if she'd sought to.

_No turning back. _

Portia opened her spirit eyes and stepped forward, her hand not even hesitating as she pushed through a set of doors and into the bedroom that she had seen before. She immediately moved toward the window, remembering Gilthan's advice, and not bothering to look for Mehrunes. He was here somewhere, she was sure, and once he pinpointed her, she might lose her opportunity. Hopefully he was as arrogant as always, for then he wouldn't try to stop her spying...

"Being," a voice rumbled, and she kept moving forward, but suddenly a man stepped into her path of direction, and looking up, she found herself face-to-face with Mehrunes Dagon, although he still appeared more human than in Oblivion. "I don't like late night visitors," he told her, obsidian eyes grinding into her with such force that she questioned her naturally assumed invisibility. Oh gods, what if...? "Perhaps I'll make an exception for you this once." What?

Portia stepped away while cursing him under her breath, for he was pulling a curtain over the window, meaning that he somehow knew what she was up to. She might still be able to move the fabric, but she didn't want to risk bumping into him—not after she'd discovered she was more solid than desired in his presence, and the pull between them was always growing stronger, so accidents were not something that she wished to risk.

"I've made some observations," Mehrunes continued, his reddish body advancing on her and backing her into a wall that felt far too solid and real for her comfort. "Would you care to hear them?" He paused as if waiting for an answer before giving her his best, wicked grin. "No, I suppose you don't, but you'll listen anyway..." He loomed over her with an unbearable severity that made Portia straighten to her full height. She would not be cowed by this prince, even with all his power. "You're female."

Portia simply stared as one of his hands reached out and passed through her, but not smoothly. There was resistance, and his hand left a disturbance in her pulse that he apparently sensed if his smile was any indication. "Don't get excited," he admonished. "You're safe for the time being. I'd like to claim you and see how long it takes to break someone as forward as yourself, but I'm not going to rush." _Yeah right_. Portia glared and slipped through his arm, pleased that her physical form had not solidified in this odd, dreamlike state of hers. She didn't even know how that was possible when she had a very real body somewhere else, but she could worry about details later. "There's no point in running," Mehrunes grinned. "I'll never let you go, not after what you've done, but you won't stop fighting either, I'm sure."

Portia moved toward the curtain, determined to move it when a surge of pain shot through her hip. Crying out, she nearly fell to the floor but instead leaned against the wall, the desired curtains a mere foot from her. Her arm lifted, reaching for its fabric while the sphere burned against her skin in response. The bastard was going to get his own some day.

"Aghhhhh," she groaned as another sharp pain hit her, and she heard Mehrunes stalking closer.

"I don't think so," he growled. "I told you that the longer you touch Oblivion, the greater it's hold over you, and I'm telling you right now, I have far more power than required to take advantage of that. When you visited me in my home, you were distant—too detached to fully manipulate, but you're not so far from me now, are you?" The sinister bent to his words made Portia glare as he again reached for her. "You're not just mentally but physically close to me now, and we can play this game all night," he chuckled. "I haven't anything better to do, and you never fail to amuse."

Portia was wishing that her spirit form came equipped with a damned weapon as she faced off against the prince. She said nothing that he seemed to hear—not that the arrogant bastard was used to listening, and he continued talking and looking at her as if he could see her concentration and itchy attack fingers.

"You see me as I am," he thought aloud. "If you didn't, you'd have given me a few wounds to remember by now, or poisoned my food or something, but you've only..." He clamped his fanged mouth closed with a stern grunt before a more amusing idea seemed to hit him, and that's when he reached a hand for her hip—the hip where the wound was, and Portia could feel warm liquid on her skin as his fingers drew closer.

"Go back to the Deadlands, you bastard!" Portia spat, making a dive for the window. Mehrunes intercepted her with unseen force, reaching out with power rather than his physical body to hold her in place, and she certainly felt it, as if two strong arms were wrapped around her. For a second, she met his predatory eyes, and she couldn't help but ponder who would win in a fight between Mehrunes and Cassius. The aggressive man would love an opponent like this, and they'd likely rip each other to shreds, much to her convenience.

"Determined," Mehrunes admired. "I've always noticed that about you. Here, let me help you behave." Portia found herself thrown against and held to the wall, her toes barely touching the floor as Mehrunes walked close enough that his breath touched her skin. Thank Akatosh that this was only partially real, for otherwise, she'd be forced to claw him again in an attempt to die with some dignity.

"Do you know what it's like to be constantly thwarted in your plans?" he lowly asked her, nearly purring as she realized that he only wore pants. She supposed that it was better than a loincloth. "I'm a prince, and when someone makes a fool of me, I take it very personally. I've tolerated you because you interest me, being, but you can't hide behind fog walls forever. You have no idea how close your time is to running out. Sand through the glass, my lady." Portia was stunned as he stepped away, taking with it a distinct warmth that had invaded her bones. This was the man that had almost grown accustomed to and somewhat welcoming of her spirit presence, and now he rushed her with these threats? What troubled her most was the suggested substance behind them, and that could mean that...oh, by the Nine, but did he know? Those black eyes glinted with mischief, making it very likely.

"Be a good girl and go home," he whispered. "I promise that we'll meet again soon, and perhaps you'd like to wear something a little more appropriate next time. Although that is a very charming outfit..." He smirked cruelly as the power fazed out and Portia left his bedroom. He knew. Gods, but how had he found out? Why now? Was he watching her from afar until striking? Portia felt like she'd explode as she flew upward in her bed, the normal blood on her sheets, and her hands reaching to light a candle since sleep was out of the question for the remainder of the night.

Light crackled to life, and she pulled back her loosened hair. It was then that she looked down and noticed her bare, creamy legs folded across the sheets. A large tunic was the only thing that she wore, and it barely preserved her modesty. So he'd seen her, and in what a condition! She fought down the urge to break something as she leaned back against her pillows and ignored her slick wound. Of all the images of her that Mehrunes could hold, an short nightgown with a deep v-neck was not what she'd had in mind.


	21. Chapter 21: Kissing Death

Here is another chapter at last! I apologize for the wait, but I wanted to finish my other Oblivion story, and then I moved, so I've been very busy. I actually don't have internet at the new house yet, but I'm using the wifi at my hubby's work since I dropped him off today. lol. Enjoy, and as always, please review. I promise that some...interesting interaction between Mehrunes and Portia is coming in the next chapter, but I can't rush to such scenes at the expenditure of plot.

Chapter 20:

Gilthan waltzed into the shop with all the natural grace of his race, and stood by the counter, waiting for the owner to notice him. He had not forgotten Portia's request that he investigate Horace, but he was having a difficult time finding leads on the man. Sure, there were rumors about the man's inappropriate advances on women, especially since the aristocrat had apparently gotten one of his maids pregnant last year, but that was only ordinary gossip. What Gilthan wanted to know was whether or not the Imperial was a threat to Portia or others, for he very much agreed with his favorite female when she suspected Horace and Cassius of ill intentions. Both were questionable figures, but unless Portia saw the possible connection between Cassius and Mehrunes Dagon, Gilthan failed to understand her desire to investigate the two. It wasn't like she was involved in politics or the legion.

"Ah, Gilthan, what can I do for you?" an old, female Altmer asked as she popped her head out from the back room of her store. Stray plant particles decorated her graying hair, and her hands held a bundle of herbs and a pair of cutters. "I just got a fresh order of arrowroot, if you're interested."

"Actually, I came to discuss a more personal matter," Gilthan openly stated. "And one that I'd prefer to carry on in private, if you don't mind. I promise to behave myself." He held up his hands for emphasis, and the woman's eyebrows shot upward.

"You? Being serious?" she tutted. "Now I've seen everything. How exactly can I help you?" She set her work aside and wiped hands on a stained apron as she walked closer to converse in low tones, eager to aid a younger Altmer. It was a response that Gilthan had anticipated given the closeness of the high elf community in the Imperial city, and trusting his elder, he prepared to confide in her as he spun a detect life spell in the back of his mind—just in case another customer unexpectedly arrived.

"I'm sure that you remember the rude Imperial that came in here a while ago," Gilthan began.

"Horace Pantrov," the owner scoffed. "How could I forget that one?"

"Yes, well, the University is keeping an eye on him, but that's between you and me. Not many know about Horace's little 'projects', and Traven would like to keep it that way."

"Is that so? Well, I've no reason to defend an Imperial when the university gives me better business. If I can help, I'm more than willing to do so. I'd love to see that arrogant brat knocked down a few pegs." And that was exactly what Gilthan had been hoping to hear.

"Wonderful," he smiled. "Do you happen to know what he usually buys?"

"Oh, nothing that a basic healer wouldn't need, but he almost always sends a servant to pick up orders, and not that often either. It's only recently that he's been gracing me with his person, and the items have been a bit...unusual." Gilthan crossed his arms over the counter and leaned closer.

"Like a daedra heart?" he questioned, clearly remembering the man's last shopping trip.

"He's waiting for another one," the owner shared, straightening and moving toward a small cabinet near the storage room. "I've got the order right here." She retrieved a piece of paper from a small drawer and glanced over its contents, cursing her failing vision as she did so. "Let's see...yes, one daedra heart, and a vial of ogrim blood, if you can imagine. Ogrim blood is hard enough to get on a good day, let alone when the empire is in general disorder with these damned assassinations! I told him that it would take a few weeks, but he insists that it arrive within two, and he'll pay double for the trouble. I told him that it will get here when it gets here. Impatient man!"

"Ogrim blood?" Gilthan didn't know of any spells or incantations that required such an off kilter ingredient, but the very nature of the item's source suggested dark magic beyond the usual. If anything, rare blood tended to be an amplifying agent in certain rituals or potions, but such magic and alchemy would be impossibly difficult for someone with little professional training... "Someone's being naughty," Gilthan concluded.

"I don't police what my customers are doing with their purchases," the owner defended. "I just sell what they request."

"But since the university has a direct interest in Pantrov, perhaps you could lose the blood or heart if the need arises?" Gilthan gave the wrinkled woman his sweetest smile, making her roll her eyes and cross arms over her chest.

"You know that I adore you, Gilthan, but whose authority is backing this? My shop doesn't handle personal favors. It hurts my credibility." Gilthan clutched a hand to his chest and sighed in exaggerated fashion.

"Dear, dear lady," he addressed. "The authority is higher than my own, I assure you, and since you don't care for this customer, how can this be disagreeable? I will pay for the items if you don't deliver them to him, and the man badmouths everyone who makes him wait for more than five minutes, so anything he says against your fine establishment will be dismissed by the more intelligent. So tell me, what are the chances that his items will be lost in storage?"

"Fairly high," she relented. "But only if you pay for them, and you won't charm your way out of this one either." Casting a pleased expression against her glare, Gilthan winked and swung toward the exit.

"I knew that I could rely on you," he called over his shoulder as he opened the door. "And I look forward to your beautiful company on some other, bright day." The snort that followed him out the door might have been due to his flirtatious tone or the fact that the so-called 'bright day' was actually quite overcast and promising rain. It was a perfect day to stay inside and read or dabble with a new spell, and that was exactly what Gilthan planned to do as he returned to the university. If he grew bored, he could always bother that new recruit that kept casting eyes at him, for she was a very pretty example of his race, and not as snobbish as most. She would have even proved an irresistible distraction, except that Gilthan was feeling less amorous lately since another had captured his fancy.

_Slow down there, Gilthan!_ The elf chuckled to himself as he walked along the wide, white pathways of the Arcane University. It wasn't that he was interested in courting Portia, but he admitted that he found her attractive, and she was intelligent and an instigator, which were both traits that he favored. As such, spending more time with her was desirable, and there was also the matter of the chaos sphere and Cassius to consider, for the endangerment that they presented brought out a more serious and protective side of Gilthan. He wanted to ensure Portia's safety, and maybe, when all was said and done, she would be interested in being more than friends.

Gilthan reigned in his imagination as he entered a small, rarely frequented hallway that connected the kitchens and food storage. He often came here to sneak baked goods from the head cook, who more often than not, ended up throwing dough at him, but the challenge of avoiding assault was half the fun. And the poor baker thought that flour in the face would deter him. Foolish, foolish woman. Feeling mischievous, Gilthan was about to creep into the pantry when soft voices drifted to his ears from down the hall.

"I was wondering why you wanted to meet in private," a female voice teased. "We're both far too old to be sneaking around in storage rooms. I do have private quarters, you know." Well this could be interesting, and so Gilthan paused with a hand on the door, eavesdropping on what he assumed to be two lovers. His sharp ears strained to catch snippets of conversation before he heard a distinct moan that made him rethink his decision. Perhaps he'd better leave before the show got too graphic for an audience.

"I'll come for you later tonight, and we can discuss our mutual interests," a male voice whispered. "Meet me outside so that Traven doesn't see us."

"Until then, and I expect to be repaid for the inconvenient hour."

"In more ways than one, my dear. Some people simply don't appreciate the beauty of your art." Two people emerged from one of the rooms near Gilthan, and the elf nearly fell over when he realized that he was now facing the very Imperial who he'd been requested to investigate. He was further shocked to see that Horace was half-holding a female, who although older, was still very attractive and shapely with her slender form and dark tresses. Caranya? She was one of the few necromancers remaining in the public eye after Traven's ascent to power, and Gilthan suspected that she was only allowed to remain at the university due to her long-held prestige and monetary contributions. Traven would have a difficult time disposing of her, and so he willfully ignored her magical specialization, which although granting job security, did nothing to prevent others from avoiding an association with the woman. By the Nine, even Gilthan disliked the bossy necromancer, and what was she doing with Horace Pantrov?

"I bid you good day," Horace farewelled, planting a kiss on the back of the woman's hand as he gave a brief nod toward Gilthan. The man's expression said everything that the elf needed to know about his intentions toward the woman, and while it disgusted him, Gilthan returned the nod with a forced smile, as if acknowledging the man's good fortune. If Horace wanted to assume that he too was a sexual conquistador, let the Imperial think what he wanted. Gilthan wondered how many women had been seduced by the snob before him, but then again, Horace's presence here, and his choice of companion in a woman who despised the university's policies, might be more than it appeared. It would be best to keep an eye on the two if possible.

"Gilthan! How many times have I yelled at you?" The elf jerked away from the door that he'd unconsciously been pulling open as a broad woman nearly forced the wood into his nose. Near disaster adverted, he found himself face-to-face with a very grumpy cook who was much thicker and physically imposing than himself, even considering his naturally tall stature. "Get out, ruffian!"

"Just one roll," he pleaded.

"Now, Gilthan!" The elf chuckled as he quickly departed, the threatening wave of a rolling pin hastening his pace, yet he managed to glance over his shoulder at the two lovers, who were traveling in the opposite direction. The necromancer glared at him, silently ordering him not to mention her tryst, but he made no response as he tried to figure out why the woman would go after Horace. She didn't strike him as the romantic kind, but then again, she was a bit of a predator, and he was willing to bet that she'd 'devoured' her share of men over the years. Women who liked lording their power over others tended to be aggressive in pursuing their desires, and he wouldn't put sexual manipulation passed the dark lady of the university. That plus her already deeply embittered attitude toward Traven made Gilthan distrust her as innately as he did Horace and Cassius. Yep, he definitely needed to keep his eyes on her.

***************

This was one of the better tasks that he'd been assigned, and Horace was determined to enjoy it. After hours of pouring over possible, university candidates, he'd finally found Caranya with her rumored background and clear disdain for Traven making her perfect. So he'd turned on the charm and hinted at his desire to harm Traven for some unnamed wrong, and she'd seemed interested enough, but that didn't mean that she'd fallen for his trap. No, she was a woman who took her time, and Horace had almost opted for a simpler route and gone after a more naive mage when the woman had finally responded to his advances. That they both found each other attractive was no secret, but he had a feeling that this one needed to be handled carefully, for she wasn't as nearly gentle or innocent as many of his amorous targets.

"Here," he softly spoke, catching the eye of a figure cloaked in purple. Caranya was a sharp dresser, and the type of woman to tease a man with subtle flashes of skin or the small jolts of magicka that she laced through her fingertips with such ease. All in all, Horace liked the enticing attention, and if she desire more intimate activities before he let Mehrunes deal with her, he certainly wouldn't object.

"How long have you been waiting?" her silky voice questioned as she drew closer, hips swaying from side to side.

"Long enough to demand this as payment," and Horace pulled her against his chest, lips seeking hers as she wrapped slender arms around his waist, one hand running tauntingly across the top of his belt. She took control of their movements as they briefly pressed into one another in the dark of an archway, Horace wondering why she was so eager. He had expected more resistance in convincing her to accompany him home, even with their mutual interests, but now, after only three days, they were about to spend an evening on his mattress, and such a pace was much too fast for his suspicions not to be aroused along with other things. Why was she so eager? Either she hadn't been taken in a very long time, or she wanted something more from him. He was, after all, playing an infatuated fool, so coercing him would not appear difficult.

"This way," he instructed her, taking her hand and leading her deeper into the city until his house came into view. It was an interesting trip to say the least, and by the time that they were on his doorstep, his hands were fumbling to accomplish the simple task of inserting a key into the lock since she was all over him, kissing his neck, lips, and cheeks. By the grace of all that was good in this world_,_ her hands were already at his belt buckle, stroking the metal. Had someone slipped her a lust potion or something?

The door practically slammed into the wall with their combined weight pressing against it, and Horace stumbled as his companion gracefully regained herself and tossed her cloak onto a nearby stool. Her blue, velvet dress grazed the floor as she took the liberty of leading the way upstairs, even without knowing exactly where his bedroom was, and Horace trailed behind her, happy to enjoy the view from the back as she laid a hand on the first door.

"No," he told her, and she shot him a sly smile before moving onward, reaching for the next door handle. "You're cold." The game amused Horace as he watched and responded to her every move, finally telling her that she was getting warmer when her hand touched the doors to Mehrunes' chamber. "Warm, but not there yet." He stepped beyond her and opened the next door, the barrier swinging inward to reveal the master bedroom with its wide bed and ornamental furniture. He moved inside and discarded his shirt onto the floor, followed by his boots.

"Not so fast," Caranya ordered, her hands wrapping around his middle from behind. "You're well-muscled for a diplomat," she observed, long nails tracing light patterns on his abdomen. They were painted purple, like her cloak, and he wondered if they were capable of cutting him. He liked trying new things, but he did not find pain stimulating like some, and who knew what this siren was capable of doing.

"I like what I see," she purred in his ear, and he reclaimed the evening's direction as he placed hands over his buckle and finished the job that she had started. With a dull thud, his belt hit the floor, but she wasn't done playing with him yet. She urged him to turn around and face her as her hands pressed against his hips, and he obeyed, more than willing to prolong the process and enjoy completing his assignment. It didn't bother him in the least to know that Mehrunes and Ruined Cloak were probably in the next room, waiting for his signal and about to gain an earful of earthy moans and gasps. They could wait until after he'd serviced this lovely necromancer.

"Do you have something specific in mind?" he asked her, kissing her as he pulled her against his body. The move elicited a small smile from her as she slipped fingers beneath the rim of his trousers, promising more stimulation as he left a wet trail of kisses down her neck. She really knew what to do with her hands, or should he say hand? He noted that only one hand was slipping into his pants, and the other was conspicuously absent. He was wondering how she was going to surprise him when he heard a faint, metallic click. Damn, but he knew that sound.

Instinct saved him as he shoved the woman away, eyes traveling to the swift movement of her left hand, where a dirk glinted in the light from an overhead fixture. His hand snapped outward, gripping her wrist and barely stopping the weapon's deadly passage toward his heart, but she was stronger than she looked, and a struggle immediately ensued. A hand struck his temple, but he tenaciously held her left wrist, knowing that if he released it, he'd soon be bleeding.

"Bitch," he growled, squeezing her delicate arm to force the dirk free, but with a shriek, her fingers clamped over the metal with amazing determination. Horace was about to punch her when her other hand lifted to cast a spell, the words almost complete as he swatted the threatening limb to the side, sending the spell into the wall where it promptly ignited a tapestry into flames.

"A little help please!" Horace shouted as he finally threw the woman down and slammed a foot onto her left hand, causing her to snarl in pain as she released the dagger, which Horace promptly kicked aside. "Stay down," he commanded her. "And if you even think about casting a spell, you'll find yourself on wrong end of my sword."

"Or mine," a dark voice seconded as Mehrunes Dagon entered the room. "Put it out," he ordered the man beside him, and one of Ruined Cloak's concealed hands lifted and muttered a few words before the fire in the corner vanished, leaving the room tense and smoky as Horace stepped away from the necromancer. She lay propped up on her hands, dark hair cascading over her shoulders and neck in a messy mantel of black

"We were wondering if you weren't taking your time," Mehrunes commented as he eyed Horace's disrobed state. "It was hard to tell whether the two of you were fighting in here or simply being loud." The Imperial merely grunted and retrieved his tunic while the necromancer glanced between the two.

"This was a set-up?" she cautiously ventured. "For what purpose?" Somehow she managed to sound indignant rather than scared as she scathingly viewed the odd assembly around her, daring them to lay a hand on her.

"I might also ask what your purpose was," Horace countered. He retrieved her fallen dirk and examined the blade, finding a small button on the pommel that retracted the deadly edge. He often carried a similar device, although he'd hardly been expecting to encounter one tonight.

"You wanted to play," Caranya sourly noted. "I merely decided to take advantage of that. I was not expecting you to involve friends." She sat up while the fingers on her left hand rubbed together as if eager for action, magicka flaring gently at the tips.

"Don't think about it," Ruined Cloak softly warned, his deadpan voice a ghostly whisper from the sidelines, and the necromancer studied him with a calculating expression before her hands stilled.

"We don't wish to kill you," Mehrunes informed her. "But if you refuse to cooperate, we might."

"If you wanted my aid against Traven, there were simpler ways of asking," the woman noted, readying to stand when Horace extended a hand toward her. She glared at him as she accepted the offer and was hauled to her feet, hands quickly moving to smooth over her dress's velvet folds.

"It would have been simple enough, and perhaps a bit more enjoyable for both of us if you hadn't tried to kill me," the Imperial coldly stated. "But perhaps later..."

"Don't count on it," she said, cutting him off. "So the plan was to screw me and than introduce me to your accomplices? I'm not a woman to be trifled with, boy." She sounded genuinely offended, which made Horace smile to further infuriate her.

"And here I had the bed prepared especially for us. It's a shame that the effort will be wasted, but it's your loss." With a mocking bow of his head, the Imperial stepped aside as the woman fumed, her posture straightening in haughtiness as she narrowed her eyes at her almost lover. For his part, Horace would still have taken her right then and there if she wouldn't have turned him into a human torch, but with some maneuvering, maybe she'd come around.

"You can stop acting self-righteous," Mehrunes noted with a trace of amusement. "How rich that you're offended because this man wanted to use your body, and yet you would have aroused and then murdered him for your experiments. I believe that such women are referred to as black widows on this plane." The daedric prince laughed as he noted Horace's perturbed expression as his comment's significance sunk in.

"Damn necromancers," the Imperial muttered beneath his breath. _Nice backyard though_.

"What exactly would you like me to do?" Caranya probed. "And will I leave here alive if I refuse?"

"A smart question," Mehrunes said, sitting in a chair and resting one ankle across a knee. "After I tell you about how our deal will work, you won't want to decline the offer. Ruined Cloak." The shadowy figure disappeared to return seconds later with a large object wrapped in brown cloth. "You'll find a dead Khajit inside for your own disposal if you agree to help us."

"I can't have the Imperial?" Caranya sarcastically asked.

"You can always have me," Horace smugly replied. "Just don't bring a dagger next time." Mehrunes grinned as he noted the necromancer's stance change into a less defensive one, even if she kept throwing dirty looks at Horace. She was interested now, and the body was probably the freshest that she'd seen in months.

"The body is in exchange for...?"

"Your cooperation," Mehrunes stated. "I want you to find out if any powerful artifacts have recently come into the University's possession, and if so, where they are being held. I'm look for anything along the lines of jewelry, or perhaps someone who knows more on the subject. Depending on your findings, we will move forward from there. Horace will be in contact with you."

"My lady," the Imperial smiled.

"I don't suppose the silent one is available," Caranya scoffed, but she received no response. "Very well. I will find the information that you seek, and for another body, I might even be willing to guide you into the university should you desire it."

"Wonderful," Mehrunes nodded. "If you prove useful, Ruined Cloak will deliver more packages for your use, but only at my discretion."

"You better give me a reason to supply good reports then," Horace added in what sounded to be a thoughtful tone. "We may be seeing more of each other." The woman turned murderous eyes on him before lifting the bottom of her dress to walk toward the door.

"If we are done here, I will be going. Perhaps one of your men could carry the luggage." Mehrunes chuckled at her word choice and motioned for Ruined Cloak to assist her, his amusement growing tenfold when Horace continued to stare at the woman's shapely body. It must have been a disappointing night for the man.

"And what is your name, sir, in case I have need to seek you out directly," the necromancer continued.

"It's unimportant," the prince dismissed. "But you know where to find Horace, _and_," he stressed, "If anyone else hears even the slightest mention of what we've discussed, our next meeting won't be as pleasant."

"I have survived in my position for this long because I am intelligent," Caranya tartly replied. "Don't belittle me." Ruined Cloak closed the door behind himself as he accompanied the lady out, leaving Mehrunes and Horace in the master bedroom to discuss the situation.

"You made a wise choice," Mehrunes commended. "She's greedy and cold."

"And deadly" Horace added. "She'll never utter a word against us since we have dirt on her, and Arch-mage Traven is already after her because of her profession. She won't risk negative exposure."

"I'm assuming that you chose her for other reasons as well," Mehrunes suggested, standing to retreat to his own room.

"I'm a man of leisure at heart, my lord," Horace replied. "But I find myself less fond of her now that she's burnt one of my favorite tapestries."

"You'll have a more restful night then anyway," the prince smirked.

"Indeed. Goodnight, my lord." Mehrunes didn't bother to respond as he exited and moved to his room, planning to call on Portia's spirit and see if he couldn't ensnare her. She'd been more careful as of late, and so he had yet to force her presence since he'd last cornered her. Somehow she skirted around his grasp, which while making him appreciate her willpower even more than he already did, was beginning to annoy him. Maybe he shouldn't have threatened her so acutely during their last encounter, for then he'd be able to observe her spirit in a calmer setting, but with knowledge of her secret identity.

_What was done is done_, he decided, and with a little effort, he was sure that he'd get his way. So he readied himself to channel the power that always lay directly beneath the surface, the chaos sphere amplifying his abilities as the night grew darker. Balancing his emissions with the limitations placed on him by possible observers like the university was tricky, but the reward would be worth it. He wanted to see Portia again, and when the prince wanted something, how could a mere mortal stand in his way?


	22. Chapter 22: Two in the Night

Chapter 21:

Tamil leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs, face dour in light of her recent assignments, and her mind elsewhere as Arelius shuffled a stack of papers. It was an achingly beautiful day that made the elf wish to be outside, for the mild weather was reminiscent of her home in Balmora, where much of the year was moderate. Fall was fully set into motion now, the warmest days gone, and cooler air sweeping down off of the mountains, which was pleasant weather for daytime work, but night shifts were always nicer in summer when the touch of darkness was refreshing. Tamil also recalled that the change in seasons had once meant fewer contracts and greater boredom, for the Morag Tong was never as busy in fall as in summer, but those days were now a distant memory.

"I take it that you haven't found anything," Arelius stated, glancing up at her as he locked several papers inside of a drawer. "And I'm afraid that the latest news is equally unpromising. No one has any leads on whoever murdered that guard."

"There are rumors," Tamil offered. "I've heard that a Khajit beggar went missing several days ago, and after the last few murders, I'm sure that he isn't simply taking a trip. You should see how the beggars huddle together at night like frightened animals."

"You obviously think that the murders are connected to our guard in some way."

"And you don't?" Tamil challenged as she tapped fingers against the chair's arms, her nimble digits always looking for something to do.

"Of course I think that they're connected. If we were dealing with a common murderer, he wouldn't have taken blood from the beggars, and the guard was too close to the house for my comfort. I'm not ruling out the possibility of cultists or a rogue necromancer for the homeless—gods know that Traven's driving some of them to the brink of blood—but the other murder is far too suspicious. Whoever is keeping an eye on us, which is no mystery, is getting closer. The question is whether or not they're Dawn members, hired hands, or denizens of Oblivion."

"I still can't believe that Mehrunes Dagon is somewhere in this city," Tamil glowered.

"You're just grouchy that you haven't found your friend yet," Arelius subtly smiled.

"Don't remind me about that bastard. Those Dawn members are here somewhere," the elf darkly continued to frown, remembering the sting of poison in her gut. "And if I could only find them, I'm sure that I could link them to these murders. Blood's such a ritual element in daedric worship, and I've seen enough alters in Morrowind to know. It has to be them who're doing the killing, but they're keeping their hands hidden...was any blood taken from the guard?" Arelius folded arms over his desk and turned his calm eyes outside, where he could see a hawk flying across the rooftops.

"No," he stated. "The guard's murder was hasty, and the culprits fled, whereas the other bodies showed patience and precision; so I would say that his death was accidental. Lucretia hasn't picked up traces of anyone spying on us since then either, but she told me not to trust her magic. Someone's been countering her spells."

"Blight," Tamil cursed, her words followed by a knock at the door.

"Come in," Arelius called, and the door swung open to reveal Portia, fresh from a night of mental torment, her ponytail crooked, and her walk favoring the left side. "More visions?" Arelius guessed, and she nodded.

"You look like you slept in an ash storm," Tamil chimed in as the newcomer settled into a nearby chair.

"I'm not surprised," Portia replied. "Mehrunes was trying to capture me for most of the night. The bastard doesn't give up when he's set on something, _and_, to make matters worse, I'm fairly certain that he knows who his late night visitor is." Tamil leaned forward in her seat, eyes flashing with interest as Portia accepted Arelius's offer to access the wine cabinet to his left.

"Did you happen to discover Mehrunes' location?" Tamil asked.

"No," Portia sighed as she poured herself a glass and sat back down, the wine feeling marvelous as it swept down her throat, and the accompanying warmth softening the edge of a trying night as she observed Arelius's stoic expression. His countenance reflected concentration, and she wondered if her failed effort at gleaning Mehrunes' location had disappointed him. "He kept me from looking out the window," she elaborated. "So he must have known what I was after."

"He's made the connection then," Arelius digested. "Are you in immediate danger?" _And you're hoping that I'm not, because it would limit my mobility_, she thought, accepting the idea for what it was. Or perhaps she was being unfair after a hard night, for she'd seen Arelius risk his own safety to protect others before.

"Considering that he probably knows where I am, I'd say that danger's closer than I'd like," she reasoned. "I heard about the guard, Arelius, and everyone here knows why someone dangerous would be lurking outside of your home. I was hoping that Mehrunes didn't know where I am, but I'm beginning to think that he's known the entire time."

"So why hasn't the arrogant prince tried anything?" Tamil questioned. "If he wants this sphere so badly, he's being awfully slow about reclaiming it."

"He doesn't know that we have it," Arelius clarified.

"But I thought that the sphere is what connects him and Portia? Surely he has to be aware of that now that he's discovered her secret identity." Tamil looked to Portia in question, and the elf's point was a valid one. Portia had considered the matter herself, and having someone with whom to discuss such questions made her glad that she'd confided in the dark elf. It had been an obligatory decision at first, for Tamil couldn't very well help locate Mehrunes if she didn't know what she was looking for, and so Portia had taken it upon herself to share more with her superior and comrade in arms. Of course, the whole of the matter was still edited, and Portia retained the right to do so under Arelius's respect for her privacy.

"He doesn't seem to know that I have the sphere," Portia stated.

"That would explain his delay in attacking," Arelius reasoned, and he watched as Portia's visage darkened, displeasure showing over the top of her wine glass as she took another sip. "The children have been sent away," he reassured her. "And Lucretia has been taking extra precautions."

"I'm sure," Portia blankly replied.

"If we're going to be here a while, I'm getting a glass too," Tamil relented, retrieving alcohol for herself as Portia's wine disappeared.

"He must be looking for the sphere," Portia darkly considered. "I've been wearing it, but the invisibility spell is very effective, so almost no one has seen it since I returned from Oblivion."

"And he may think that we've given it to the University," Tamil suggested. "As if we'd cater to the mages, but you understand where I'm coming from."

"Of course," Arelius followed. "We're at a stalemate until either we find them, or they find out where the sphere is, and until then, we won't be idle. Tamil, I want you to look into Lenicon. See if you can discover who else was likely in the Mythic Dawn with him during the first assassination attempt. There should be a list of suspects in the Legion Commander's office, and one of them might know something about our visitors."

"And what about Horace and Cassius?" Tamil questioned. "I should have information on them within a matter of days. Should I also pursue that?"

"No, Portia is handling them. Speaking of which, what have you found?"

"A friend at the university has been investigating Horace, and he found out that the man has been ordering unique items from an apothecary. A daedric heart and ogrim blood are expected in the next two weeks, and the first heart that Horace bought was purchased directly before I sensed Mehrunes in Tamriel. He's also been sneaking into the Arcane University for rendezvous with a necromancer, and Gilthan doesn't trust the man in the slightest."

"I'd like to meet this Gilthan at some point," Arelius mused. "He sounds like a useful fellow." Portia knew exactly where Arelius's mind was going, and she had to smile at his constant recruiting despite herself. The man couldn't let anyone with promising talent slip by unnoticed.

"I don't think that he's looking for a new career," she frankly told the scheming man.

"Neither were you at first," and he dismissed her objection with a small glance toward her right hip where her sword usually sat. _Point taken_, she mentally conceded, but outwardly she remained impassive. She knew that her silence was more than enough to tell Arelius to change topics, and with a satisfied smile, he did so. "Tamil, focus on trying to tie the Dawn to Horace if you can," he stated. "And I have a joint mission for the two of you this evening. There is a performance at the theater tonight, and Lucretia has supplied me with a list of those in attendance. Horace, Cassius, and Lenicon will be there, and so will you."

"Fantastic," Tamil sarcastically commented. "A formal evening out."

"How will we gain admittance?" Portia asked, amused by the dark elf's reluctance to be seen in a dress. The woman was touchy when it came to acting in a manner that didn't suit her natural inclinations, and while Portia wasn't fond of theater, sitting through an evening of drama was more attractive than spending the evening waiting for Mehrunes to call. She even knew the layout of the large staging area since she'd once been sent to deliver a delicate package during an intermission.

"Lucretia will handle the details," Arelius was saying. "Once inside, how you operate is up to you. Good luck, Blades."

**************

The Theater was packed with ladies in gowns and men in neatly tailored tunics as Portia made her way through the crowd. With a forged invitation in hand, she accompanied the throng of individuals filing toward their seats, and she had to wonder how Lucretia had wrangled her a seat on such a busy night. It was the premier of "A Rose Lost", and the excitement surrounding the play was mounting, even reaching the highest strata of society, if the presence of a council member was any indication. Part of Portia wanted to berate the man for playing games while lives were endangered, but she couldn't when she spent extended hours in the palace training grounds or library for a similar reason.

"I've found my man," a voice mentioned in passing, and Portia watched as Tamil navigated through the foyer toward a man with speckled hair and a small gut. The Dunmer female was transformed by a blue gown and arranged hair courtesy of Lucretia, but her step retained its precise, stalking glide as she honed in on her prey. Perhaps she would accost her man now, or merely keep an eye on him until an opportunity to steal him away during the play. Either way, he was not going to have a pleasant evening.

_Now to find 'my men'_.

Portia's seat was on the floor, which was at a disadvantage for viewing the balcony seats, but at least she was in the back where a general view was possible. She walked down the main aisle and listened to the laughter and anticipating conversation around her, several people recognizing and motioning toward her in greeting. Where was Cassius? She focused on sight, causing the sounds around her to dull into a droning buzz, and her body feeling isolated from the rest of the audience as she turned in a circle. Something—perhaps a flutter of a hand or light off of a gold necklace—drew her eyes toward the left and to one of the long, crimson curtains between the balconies above, whereupon her vision ran up its length, passed the dragon embroidered on its surface, and landed on several men leaning against the railing of their booth.

_Horace_, she recognized, picking the man out by his posture more than detailed characteristics. She was sure that Cassius was nearby then, and deciding to stage a run in, she returned to the foyer and located the stairs leading upward. The stairwell was all but empty due to the performance's impending start, and as she traveled unnoticed, she heard the sound of music through the wall. The orchestra had begun the play's introduction, and while the mounting hum of instruments was likely to mask her activities, Portia moved faster, the swish of her dress's fabric negated.

_Not this one_, she decided, counting the balcony doors as she passed them. _Five, six_...She paused before the seventh door, composing herself as she gently gripped the handle and opened the way inside unannounced. Her feet stepped through the doorway, loose strands of long, brown hair tickling her neck as they dangled from the bun atop her head, and one of the balcony's occupants swiveling to examine her. She immediately froze in mock surprise.

"My apologies," she urgently whispered. "I thought that my seat was in here." With a hasty curtsy, she spun to leave, but the rest of the men, who numbered about four, and a servant boy were now looking at her.

"Lady Augustine?" a voice questioned, tone hushed so as to not annoy others in the audience. Of course, the benefit of a private balcony was the ability to converse without appearing rude, but muted tones were still expected.

"Oh, hello, sir," Portia replied to Horace. "I made a mistake, and I should be getting to my own seat now." She again turned to leave when another voice halted her.

"There's no need for that," Cassius's distinctly commanding tone stated without the cautious quiet of his companions. "There's an empty seat right here, and we would be delighted if you joined us, Portia." She hesitated in order to make her supposed mistake more believable as Cassius whispered something to Horace, which caused the man to stand and move, leaving a vacant seat beside the more imposing of the two. The only open seat on the whole balcony, and it was between Cassius and the wall. Portia had the urge to ask him if the restrictive quarters were intentional, but she accepted the seat at his beckoning anyway.

"Thank you," she said, sitting down and noticing how close the seats were situated. Her thigh was grazing his.

"I wouldn't want you to miss part of the first act," Cassius replied, lifting her hand and placing a kiss on the back of it. She tilted her head in a formal reply and retracted her hand as he settled back into his chair. She did not miss the curious expression with which Horace was watching them, but she ignored it in favor of watching the actors and actresses take the stage in their exaggerated finery. Their gaudy sparkles and billowing folds fell on blind eyes as she wondered what she could accomplish this evening, but if nothing else, she would have names, for she recognized the other three men around her.

"Would you care for a drink?" Cassius quietly asked, leaning close to her ear. His elbow was propped on the chair arm between them, his eyes pitch black and face shadowed in the dim lighting of the balcony. Most of the candles had been extinguished as magical orbs lit the stage below, drawing all eyes forward except hers. She found Cassius's intense stare much more consuming than the silly antics of the characters below, and for some reason, she couldn't help but notice how silky his black hair looked in the soft lighting.

"I'm fine for now," she told him. "We haven't even been here for ten minutes, and you're already having refreshments," she then added, planning to bandy sharper words with the man since he seemed to enjoy it, but even as the words left her mouth, she was surprised by how natural and comfortable they felt.

"Alcohol is the only thing that's going to get me through this damn play," Cassius gruffly replied, his bluntness making Portia smile. The curve of her lips wasn't obvious, but he must have caught the movement all the same, for he smirked at her obvious appreciation for his comment.

"I'm not much for plays either," she confessed. "I've seen a few that I like. The Horror of Castle Xyr was entertaining, but something like this is too romanticized and delicate. It doesn't do life justice and practically makes a mockery of female sensibilities. Look at that woman. She'll run from the ogre and let the knight fight it."

"Yes, we both know how you feel about that," Cassius intoned, nearly causing Portia to jump when she realized how close his face was to hers. She could see that his irises were indeed solid black, completely lacking any fainter lines or specks of color, and the longer she stared into them, the more she sensed a strange, lurking power behind their shining surface. She looked elsewhere to prevent herself from becoming lost in his gaze, and so her eyes traveled over the curves of his face and the white teeth behind his smirk, making her realize that his incisors were unnaturally sharp. Her musings nearly made her miss his next comment.

"Tell me about the play that you like," he told her.

"It's about a necromancer who murders visitors to her castle while pretending to be innocent until she's outwitted by a guard." Cassius grinned in Horace's direction, but the other man was too busy with his cognac to notice.

"It sounds like a play that my friend would enjoy," Cassius said, and Portia had the distinct feeling that she had just missed a private joke. It was the first time that she'd seen anything even remotely close to some type of camaraderie between the diplomats, but with Cassius's sense of humor, perhaps the comment reflected a cruel joke rather than friendliness.

"I apologize again for interrupting your company," she whispered, drawing his attention back to her. "I hope that no one minds."

"They won't say anything," Cassius snorted, as if amused by the suggestion. "And as for the apology, how could I send away such a beautiful lady? You'll keep me sane throughout this torture." He had never called her beautiful before, and Portia nearly missed his words until he continued to sink that stare of his into her body. She was suddenly very aware of her slightly exposed cleavage and how her leg touched his, for she'd received very little male attention throughout her life. Oh, there had been talk of possible marriage plans when she was a mere girl, but they'd crumbled as she'd grown and become focused on work and fighting. Blades had teased her about that, for guards were mostly male, and her status as one had seemed to lessen her feminine qualities in most minds.

"That's your second glass, Cassius," she commented as he held up his empty goblet for a servant to refill.

"It's not for me," he replied, smugly smiling as he held out the red liquid toward her. "I had this specially ordered for tonight. Please, try some. Kator na lem."

"It's sweet?" she translated, reaching for the glass while part of her wanted to refuse. He could have done something to the drink, but that was nonsense considering their public location and the fact that he'd just taken a sip from it. One glass wouldn't affect her, and so she took the stem in her hand and swirled the liquid once or twice. "Is it common in Morrowind for an unrelated man and woman to share a glass?" she asked, for it was an unusual practice in the capitol.

"Only when the two are comfortable with one another," Cassius replied. _I'll see what Tamil has to say about that._

"And what makes you think that I'm comfortable with you, sir?" she pressed, noting how Cassius smirked at her question.

"You took the glass, my lady." Very few called her 'my lady', and it seemed to her that she had been called that by someone else recently, but she couldn't think straight with the smell of alcohol beneath her nostrils, and a handsome diplomat daring her to drink. Her lips touched the lip of the glass, and the wine poured over her tongue in an odd blend of spice and honey, the taste pleasing as she allowed herself to drink half of the unknown substance.

"I am walking home unaccompanied," she said, holding out the rest of the glass for him. She could already feel the alcohol in her system, and it was much stronger than she'd anticipated. "I'd better not drink too much."

"But the night is young," Cassius countered, taking the glass way from her. "And I would be rude to send you home alone in the dark now that I know you have no escort, Sherkyn."

"Sherkyn?" Portia questioned, feeling the wine warm her body, and for some reason, the chaos sphere was beginning to burn as Cassius's breath tickled her ear.

"It's a daedric term reserved for certain women," he explained. "Female dremora are trained warriors who spend most of their time raising children and defending cities and homes while males war and hunt. If a female is respected and skilled, she is called Sherkyn. It's Oblivion's equivalent of calling someone a lady, and the term is better suited to you since you are also a fighter." Portia could feel Cassius staring at her profile as her head turned back toward the stage to oversee a monologue, and she would be lying if she said that she wasn't flattered by such a talented fighter's praise.

"I don't believe Oblivion or its master would appreciate me being compared to the denizens of that world," she let pass, thinking of how enraged Mehrunes would probably be at a term of respect being applied to her.

"Oh, I think that he'd find the title most suiting," Cassius replied, voice low and stern. "Surely you've read enough about Oblivion to know that its master admires courage and audacity, both of which you possess." Portia returned her gaze to him with a veil over her face.

"And does admiration for an opponent outweigh a prince's wrath?" she questioned.

"Sometimes it might," Cassius enigmatically replied. They lapsed into silence as the orchestra struck up a melancholy tune, and the music actually found a place in Portia's appreciation as she listened to the moving crescendo of strings, flutes in the background, trilling out a tearful farewell. "I can't stand another minute of this," Cassius whispered. "Come with me."

"Excuse me?" Portia asked, stunned by his hand wrapping around hers, one of his fingers moving to her lips to cut off her loud protest. Already, others were looking at them, and Portia reprimanded herself for a lack of discretion. Somehow this diplomat always managed to put her in awkward situations.

"We won't be missed," Cassius promised, pulling her to her feet and guiding her toward the door. If she forcefully resisted him now, she would make a scene and break the trust that Cassius assumed he held over her. Perhaps this would be the perfect opportunity to question him more thoroughly and gain some answers, and thank the gods for her foresight to bring extra weapons. Who knew whether or not she was being watched as they exited the theater, two silent people treading the streets of a city still scattered with early night wanderers. Where was Cassius taking her?

**************

"This is better," Mehrunes announced, sitting on a crate in the open night air. The Arena towered above them, the stands now quiet, and the training platforms surrounding the circular building vacant. It was on one such stone rectangle that Mehrunes watched as Portia positioned herself on the crate next to him, her green dress hiding her feet as they dangled. The moon was hidden behind passing clouds, and so it was difficult to discern her features in the dark, but he could sense that she was comfortable. The enchanted wine was probably helping, for the rare vintage tended to have that affect on new drinkers.

"An interesting place to escape to," the woman commented.

"You said that you prefer a starker image of life, and here it is," Mehrunes replied. "It could be better, but I suppose that most people do not like fighting in the dark. It's an acquired comfort." His eyes traveled up the stone walls before them, the dark outlines of bats swooping through the air around the Arena's upper levels, and crickets playing music in the background.

"It's quiet now," Portia observed. "I've never been here at night like this, and during the day, all you hear is the clash of weapons and cheering." Finding that the cool night air suited him, Mehrunes imagined returning to the Deadlands and the heat of lava. There, the sounds of battle were almost endless if he wandered to the eastern section of the palace, for that was where the warriors trained and tested one another.

"The sound of strife is far more agreeable than an orchestra," Mehrunes allowed to pass his lips, and he wondered if the level of combat in this arena matched that of his dremora. Doubtful, and what an insulting thing to even consider. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"I prefer the peace of night," Portia replied. "But since you obviously disagree, what exactly are we doing out here in the dark, Cassius? The others will wonder where we've gone, and I would prefer not to be regarded as a slut." Mehrunes chuckled and stood, hands reaching for one of the training weapons so commonly left out on these grounds. His fingers found a long dagger with a slender blade, and he twirled it between his fingers with ease, Portia's eyes following every sweep of the deadly metal.

"I don't have a reputation for being romantic, Sherkyn," he told her. "So I hardly think that people will call you a whore for leaving the theater with me."

"This from a man who runs with Horace Pantrov," Portia sharply replied, and Mehrunes inwardly smirked at her quick response. She certainly did not hold her opinions in his presence, but maybe that was because she'd found him to be an open listener. After all, he did not condemn her interest in such topics as Oblivion, and he loved that no amount of disapproval would have given her pause in her pursuits. She was smart enough to study her opponents, but that only made him further question her motivations for agreeing to his request that they leave the theater.

His own motivations were clear enough, for he'd requested her company in order to escape the extreme tediousness of the play, and the opportunity to lure her into private conversation was irresistible. He saw so little of this woman who'd bested him, and every time they met, he was reminded of why he was reluctant to end his chase. Even now, with her soft skin almost glowing in what little moonlight escape the cloudy blankets above, he wanted to both hurt and preserve her—rights that he retained solely for himself, for she was his to handle as he saw fit.

"Where exactly are you from in Morrowind, Cassius?"

"The central region," he answered, the mountainous landscape of Red Mountain more similar to his homeland than any other place in Morrowind. "And where do you hail from, Sherkyn?" Portia actually laughed as she stood and strolled beyond him toward the edge of the platform, Mehrunes watching her back as he continued to play with the dagger. Her penchant for exposing herself to death at his hands never failed to rouse his predatory instincts.

"You hate small talk, so I'll ignore your question," she dismissed. _Too true_, he agreed.

"Tell me, Portia," he began. "Do you always wander off with strange men in the dead of night and expose your back to them?" His mocking tone would not go unnoticed, and he anticipated her sarcastic reply with a smile, knowing that she wouldn't take an insult laying down. She was such a fighter, and more than decent company for an evening. If she hadn't come along, he'd probably be in the manor right now, waiting to see what Ruined Cloak reported, or perhaps going out to a tavern for a drink.

"Cassius," Portia stated, voice stern. "Do you honestly think that I'm unarmed?"

"Of course not." Oh, if he had known how strong she was when she'd come to Oblivion, he wouldn't have carelessly tossed her into the dungeon. No, he would have reserved her interrogation for himself.

"If you tried anything, you'd regret it," she continued, her challenge kindling his aggressive spirit, even though it was completely unintentional on her part. He truly counted himself lucky to be pitting himself against her, but then again, he had the luxury of playing around since he held the upper hand.

"Sherkyn, I would never dream of killing you from behind," he told her. "I have nothing against unfair advantages. I often use them to reach my goals, but I prefer not kill from behind since my opponent cannot see the final blow coming." The cloud cover gradually shifted and allowed a full view of the moon's growing roundness, reminding Mehrunes of the coming time when he would leave this world. Its light also flowed over Portia, whose green eyes captured the ghostly white orb above and reflected it back at Mehrunes as he turned in her direction. Such steady, cautious eyes, and yet there was a hint of distance to them that made him wonder what she was thinking.

"I've given your comment some thought," she spoke, her subdued words carrying through the mostly silent night air. "And I believe that you're right. Mehrunes Dagon would not disapprove of me being called Sherkyn. Sometimes I want to classify him as a mere vindictive demon, but that's a simplification. He's far more than the destruction that he sometimes causes, and it's true that he admires a challenging enemy, even if the admiration ultimately leads him to murder."

"It doesn't always end in murder," Mehrunes corrected, voice mellow and dagger stilling as he walked to stand beside Portia, both looking out over the pathway encircling the Arena. "Perhaps you've never come across the story, but there was once another thief. He stole a special razor from one of the prince's shrines, and Mehrunes Dagon sent his men to kill the thief, but the man was slippery and continually escaped. It enraged the prince and made him want to torture the man, but when he finally caught his prey, the thief asked to fight the prince so that he could die with dignity. It was a request that a warrior appreciated, and so they fought and the thief died, but I wouldn't call that murder. When someone challenges a daedric prince, death isn't always a given, but when neither opponent will fold, it is often inevitable."

"You have a strong grasp of Mehrunes' lore," Portia commented. "I've never come across that story, but I see your point, and I admit that I have personal reasons for not always wanting to accept that Mehrunes is in fact more warrior than brute. He actually seems to be well-respected among his kind, and his realm is so orderly that it surprised me at first. I expected corpses to be hung from every wall, but..." Her voice trailed off, and Mehrunes could tell that she didn't want to reveal too much about her past. "Pardon my rambling," she apologized. "Sometimes I get carried away with a topic, and I haven't found many people who understand my interest in Oblivion."

"I don't mind," Mehrunes replied. "And I am curious as to what personal reasons you have to hate Mehrunes Dagon." Portia's hair caught a gentle breeze, making loose strands blow across Mehrunes' face, and bringing with them the faint smell of scented oil—no doubt rubbed into the woman's hair to make it glisten for the theater. He could feel her life energy from standing so close to her, and the proximity oddly calmed him tonight. He had once felt this way when her spirit accompanied him through the halls of Oblivion, his mood curious, comfortable, and a bit cruel in wanting to rattle his company's senses. If he closed his eyes, he would be able to pretend that the unknown being was merely hanging about as he lounged in his palace quarters, but the illusion faded when Portia began speaking. Her tongue worked to find the right words in daedric, and the softened tones of his language made Mehrunes completely forget his original intention in bringing her out here: to search her for the chaos sphere yet again.

"_Hate is a strong word, and I don't hate Mehrunes. I just...He hurt me_," Portia's voiced confronted him.

"_How_?" Mehrunes pressed, stepping closer to her intoxicating presence. He could kill or do whatever he wished with her when he was so close, and she was talking about being hurt by him, which held his interest. Her level, matter-of-fact voice did not for a moment fool him as to the emotion that must be hidden beneath the surface, for her wound still bled as it always would.

"I'm in no mood to discuss it," Portia stiffly dismissed. "Suffice it to say that the prince and I are not on good terms." Mehrunes wanted to continue talking about this and hear her take on his hunt for her, but her stony expression told him that persuasion would not work. Such a shame that he couldn't force her, but maybe he could jolt her solid front, just to make her less confident, and so he reached out with his power, brushing against her skin and causing her to stiffen.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

"No, why?"

"You seem uncomfortable," he observed with a hidden smirk while his power washed over her, searching for any trace of the chaos sphere. He could almost hear it calling him, but its summons was different than before, and he was half-distracted when Portia's energy met his own. Was it her energy? It carried her signature, yet it was far too powerful for a human, and it was tainted with chaos. Perhaps her passage through Oblivion had done more to her than he'd imagined, and the scent of his realm on her sent a ripple of electricity through him as he tentatively explored the strange patterns woven about her. How interesting, and a bit alluring as his energy glided over her body. He hadn't noticed her abnormal amount of energy before now, but everyday the connection between her and the elements of his existence grew stronger, alerting him to things of which he'd previously been ignorant.

"On second thought," Portia said, staring at him with hawklike, prying eyes. "Perhaps it's a bit chill for staying out. I had best be going home." He dropped his energy, and Portia admirable appeared unmoved as he offered her his arm.

"Then I shall escort you," he replied.

"I would refuse, but I don't think that it'd do any good," Portia said, and he heard the smile in her voice. Why was she less shaken by his power than before? "But you don't know where I live either." She took his arm, and they walked, Mehrunes perfectly aware of the fact that she was leading them in the wrong direction and wondering why she chose to do so. She was being careful with how much he knew about her, and yet she'd already given so much away. With a smile, he felt her pull them to a halt.

"This is far enough," Portia announced. "Good night, Cassius."

"Not yet," he refused. "Have lunch with me tomorrow. Horace will be busy with a meeting, and boredom tends to make me reckless."

"Alright," Portia agreed. "Until tomorrow then."

"Goodnight, Sherkyn." And they parted ways, Mehrunes more fixated than ever on Portia's strange relationship to him and his plane of existence.

************

"An interesting evening out, my lord?" Horace conversationally asked when the prince returned. The Imperial sat in a chair, a servant setting a platter of rolls and jam beside him. He hadn't seen the prince since Portia had accompanied the man out of the theater during the first act, which left Horace to answer certain questions about his 'friend'. Really, the very idea of him and Mehrunes being close companions made his eyes roll.

"I'm never going with you to one of those plays again," Mehrunes grunted. "The playwright of that shit should be tied in a sack and thrown from a bridge." Horace frowned as he prepared a roll for himself, crumbs falling across his expensive tunic and annoying him.

"Your exit made Lenicon wonder how serious you are about the cause. He agreed to see whether or not any of his old associates know about an artifact being taken into the palace, but he thinks that—and I quote—that you're an idiot who needs to take the Dawn more seriously. He also advises that you keep your pants up around Portia Augustine since she's known for being independent and connected to authorities."

"They think that _I'm_ chasing woman?" Mehrunes asked shortly. "And an idiot. I'll remember that he said that for later. Did I miss anything else? I don't suppose that anyone was foolish enough that you had to kill the servant."

"The boy was chosen because he's deaf, so no harm done there. And you only missed an invitation for dinner from a lovely, young Breton. Your more exotic appearance has drawn attention from certain ladies, but I told her that you've already found someone to keep you occupied." Horace left the unspoken question hanging in the air, and Mehrunes glared at the man. For a prince of destruction, the Imperial thought that Mehrunes was a bit impulsive and unfocused when it came to his stay here. Now, it wasn't that the prince was slacking. No, their work was progressing nicely, and Mehrunes made sure that it did, delegating and pursuing his interests with ease, but whenever that woman showed up, he tended to push other business aside. Couldn't he have just beaten the woman to a pulp and brought her back here for questioning? Okay, so their timetable wouldn't allow such blatant activities, but it would be so much faster in getting Horace his reward and this unwanted guest out of his house.

"Don't question how I spend my time, mortal," Mehrunes gruffly warned him, dark eyes flashing dangerously.

"Of course not, my lord," Horace replied. "I merely find it insulting that Portia Augustine walks with such freedom while we look for what she took." Mehrunes shot Horace a wicked smirk that made the young aristocrat nervous, for it was the look of a cruel master, and one whom he had to be careful not to anger. No matter how annoyed he felt, he had to humble himself or face the consequences.

"She's not carefree, Imperial. Far from it, and I tighten the screw a little more every time we meet." Grabbing a roll for himself, the prince headed for the stairs, Ruined Cloak already appearing from the shadows as his lord approached. "Don't meddle in my personal affairs, Horace," he advised. "You've done remarkably well so far, and there's too much work to be done for you to be concerned over a few hours."

"Yes, my lord." Sometimes Mehrunes wished that he'd brought a few dremora with him instead of having to deal with humans.


	23. Chapter 23: The Spark of Attraction

Chapter 22:

This was where they were supposed to meet, for Portia had received a notice that morning instructing her to find a table since Cassius would be running a little late. "The Gilded Swan" was a nice place for a meal, although a bit above her usual spending range, but an occasional treat would do no harm. Besides, Cassius would probably insist on paying, and the very idea sounded so much like a date that Portia hesitated as she stepped into the building. This was not a date in her mind, for Cassius was one of her suspects, but what exactly did _he_ think of this? She had, of course, considered several possibilities, and as farfetched as a date sounded, she supposed that this was how ordinary people went about courting. Aristocratic men were understood to take ladies to public places lest rumors spread, although that was an often ignored social convention.

Either way, she was here now, and Portia would be damned if she let the implications of this meeting deter her. The concept of a date merely unsettled her since she was inexperienced in such matters, for while she had been assigned to male targets before, she had never led someone on when working. Sure, some flirting had served her well in the past, but to encourage someone as dark and demanding as her current suspect seemed a bit foolhardy. Normally, the idea wouldn't have bothered her since danger was no stranger, but this matter was complicated by the fact that she found herself genuinely coming to appreciate Cassius as a personality, and if she had to kill someone, she didn't like knowing them as a person.

_Always assume the worst so you're never surprised_, she recalled, Arelius having given her the advice one stormy night when she was about to go on patrol. As long as she recognized where the danger in Cassius lay, she would be prepared to handle him, or so she hoped. He had bested her in combat once before, and if he was the enemy, taking him down was not a task to laugh at. Beyond that, he was definitely clever, which made him an engaging man whose attention kept her guessing, and if he weren't so enigmatically threatening, she would have found his qualities ideal for a sparring partner.

"Good day, Portia." She glanced up to find Cassius slipping into the seat opposite her, their small, corner table brightly lit by a nearby window, and the light catching gold embroidery on the man's outfit. "Have you already ordered?"

"No," she answered. "I was waiting for you."

"Good. And were your students giving you difficulties today?" he continued, pointing to a large bruise on the back of her hand. The man looked delighted about something, but in a twisted way that only he could pull off so perfectly. Why, when he was such an imposing figure, did he always seem so interested in details concerning her? Thank Akatosh that the sphere was invisible, for she was sure that the man would have immediately noticed it otherwise, and she didn't feel like explaining the artifact's presence to him. She had let more than intended slip last night anyway, and she blamed the damn wine and his compelling companionship for that. She certainly wouldn't be accepting strange drinks from him ever again, for she had mentioned the alcohol to Lucretia, who was an expert on rare vintages, and was told about magically-imbued drinks that went straight to the head. Damn, conniving bastard.

"One of the boys was a little overzealous," she explained away her bruise, examining its purple and green hue. "If I hadn't stepped in, I'd be faced with an injured child and an angry mother right about now."

"Pain might have taught the weaker pupil a lesson," Cassius suggested.

"Do the world a favor and don't become a teacher," Portia responded, making Cassius bellow that deep, rich laugh of his. His black hair was loose today and hung about his face, the soft strands brushing across his cheeks as he smirked at her, and it _was_ a smirk, for what he was doing definitely couldn't be called a smile. Damn, conniving, _handsome_ bastard. Lunch wasn't going to be dull.

*************

Tamil stood on a rooftop overlooking the Temple District and unrolled the scroll in her hands. Wind tousled her short, dark hair as black clouds approached on the horizon, sweeping down from the northern mountains and promising rain. It would be a perfect day for exploring the sewers, for the rats would run into hiding with the promise of swelling canals, and even if overflow made the walkways slippery, Tamil would rather deal with dampness than animals. Unfortunately, she'd been ordered not to explore the underworld.

Arelius didn't want her down there by her lonesome self when dawn members possibly lurked beneath the city's feet, and his decision irritated the hell out of her. He didn't know that she was a former assassin and accustomed to fighting in the dark, but he did know what she was capable of, which only served to aggravate her current restriction. Perhaps if she hadn't been severely injured during her last encounter with the Dawn, she'd be permitted to explore, but Arelius didn't heedlessly throw his recruits into danger. In her experience, he was more than willing to risk lives and make sacrifices for the empire, but he didn't do so unless convinced that it was necessary. The Dawn was a primary concern, but apparently their heads weren't worth losing his best operative.

Tamil unfurled the scroll and read through its contents, her face darkening as she did so. It was as she'd thought: Cassius didn't exist in Morrowind's courts. No one had ever heard of him, and the Matrino family line had died off almost a decade ago.

_So who are you, Cassius?_

*************

"I heard that you were once a guard," Cassius commented, glancing at the darkening sky as he and Portia walked along the street, houses walling them in on either side. His companion wore a tunic and breeches today, and a sword was at her waist, the blade bobbing with each step that she took.

"I was for a while," she told him, her eyes also fixed on the black clouds above. Already people were hurrying to get inside, but she continued at a steady pace, unconcerned with getting wet. The cool rain would feel refreshing after collecting dirt in the training yard.

"But you're not a guard now," Cassius stated. "Why not?"

"There was an accident," she confessed, not seeing the point in lying to him. "One of my men died, and I decided that the job wasn't for me." Cassius cast an estimating glance in her direction, a hand brushing hair away from his face.

"You don't strike me as someone to be bothered by death. I would have guessed that you're experienced with such matters. Surely you killed when you were a guard."

"Once or twice," Portia slowly spoke, each word measured. She did not want to appear weak before this man, but she wouldn't pretend to agree with his callous dismissal of death merely to gain his approval. "There was a burglar that I cut down, and a killer in a back alley." _Who was a spy passing information to a rogue nobleman in Anvil_, but Cassius didn't need to know that she'd been involved in much more than she let on. "That never bothered me. Blood isn't something that I shy away from, but if I don't need to kill, I won't."

"But then how would losing a man make you leave a promising career?" Cassius pressured her, and she sent him a cold stare, warning him not to cross the line of acceptable questioning. As usual, he seemed immune to nonverbal cues.

"He didn't die by the hands of an enemy," Portia allowed. "And ever since, I've taken death more seriously. I didn't see the risk to others when I was less experienced, but the safety of people around you can't be taken for granted." The first few drops of rain began to fall, splattering off of the stone streets with muted music, and sending several nearby children into a laughing fit as they danced away from rushing parents. They reminded Portia of Arelius's children, and she briefly said a prayer for the two boys, willing the trouble of her life and the empire never to touch them. The danger of Arelius's secret life must have perpetually put poor Lucretia on edge. No wonder the woman was so strong and distant at times.

"It never rains where I'm from," Cassius stated, turning his face upward and letting the still mild rain run down his face as Portia watched the water roll down his exposed throat. He looked peaceful again, like when she'd read to him in the library, and it occurred to her that she'd never seen Cassius showing even the slightest interest to something as trivial as rain before.

"How do you grow food if it never rains?" Portia asked, hair matting to her head with the dampness, and cold drops dripping from her fingers.

"There are some plants that require little water or...other liquids, and my comment wasn't literal. There is rain, but not like you've seen, and when it hits the earth, the heat is so intense that it turns to steam." He closed his eyes a moment before lowering his head and looking at her, his hair completely slick and clinging to his neck, and the rain gaining momentum.

"This way," Portia motioned. "Before it downpours." They jogged toward a small shop with an awning over the doorway and stepped beneath it, their bodies close as the speed of the rain increased to a torrent, and the street gutters overflowing with muddy water as Portia stepped onto the shop's front step to keep her boots dry. She found it odd that she and Cassius were having such a mild day together, but she wouldn't complain as they waited for the rain to stop or slow. Part of her enjoyed his confident presence, which had felt familiar from the start, and right now, dark eyes fixed on the weather, he was incredibly docile.

"Have you ever fought in the rain?" he asked.

"Yes, and it was miserable." He chuckled and flipped dark hair back over his head.

"I've never fought in weather like this, but I would like to try."

"If that's a challenge, I'm passing," Portia muttered, and Cassius leaned against the building behind them with raised eyebrows.

"Afraid that you'll lose again?" he mockingly drawled. "Some Sherkyn you are."

"I can push you out into the rain," she teased, surprised at herself for joking with this man. She rarely said such childish things, but she hadn't spent casual time like this with someone in what felt like years. With Arelius, business always came into play, and Tamil was only around when she had nothing better to do. And Lucretia? The woman was friendly company, but their conversations were in passing, and Portia didn't want to appear a bother when the woman was so clearly pressed in watching over the house. Even if they'd been more available, Portia simply didn't have the time to sit around and act like life was normal since Oblivion, and before that, she'd been struggling to find her way out of life's jumbled nature. Now she was here, and this afternoon felt like one where she'd once gone out with her fellow Blades or guards for a drink and a dice game or two. She missed such activities now that she had returned to work. Maybe she'd see if Tamil wanted to go for a drink sometime.

"So Cassius is scared of getting soaked, I take it," she continued when her companion didn't respond to her threat. She looked at him to find his face contorted into a thoughtful expression. Then, with an almost blank countenance, he scoffed and turned away.

"Woman, no one has ever dared to do something so incredibly foolish and bold to me. Being pushed is not something that I would tolerate." Oh really? What an arrogant man, and Portia knew exactly what to do with men like that. With a quick shove, Cassius stumbled into the street, feet landing in a large puddle as rain quickly soaked him to the bone. He stood there, fists clenched tightly and shoulders rigid before he spun on her, his eyes burning with an anger that made Portia wonder if she hadn't made a mistake. No, let the man try to intimidate her, but she wouldn't cower before him, not after everything that she had endured—that she _was_ enduring. She was tired of waking up shaking, and fearing sleep, and she had let fear drive her far too often in the last few months, even years if she considered how cowardly it'd been to hide from the blood on her hands. Arelius had done his best in showing her that, and it was one more lesson that she was struggling to apply.

**************

That bitch! Mehrunes couldn't believe that he, the lord of destruction, was standing in a puddle because some woman had dared to push him. It was degrading, and no one had ever dared to lay hands on him in such a manner. Sure, he'd been challenged and wounded in battles, but to suffer something this trite and disrespectful? Oh, she was asking to be hurt. If a dremora had dared shove him like this, the damned fool would be swinging from the rafters by his innards by now, and that was before the prince's creativity kicked in. Did this woman have any idea what 'the punished' were? He ordered enemies' hearts opened and used as baskets for defiance.

Unbelievable!

"That was a very stupid mistake," he ground out, almost addressing Portia as 'mortal' in his anger, and he was quickly moving beyond angry. He had done excellently controlling himself today, behaving for the most part, and melting into the woman's company. She had spent the day with a prince and had even seemed to enjoy it, and now she had the nerve to treat him like some commoner.

"Woman..." He turned on her and reached for her unsuspecting form, her arms quickly coming up to defend himself, but that only gave him something to grab onto. She was no match for his physical strength as he ensnared her wrists and violently yanked her into the rain, her boots landing in the same puddle that he stood in. Water drenching them, they faced off, his superior force holding her directly before him as she remained willfully controlled, although he felt her pulse racing.

"Never touch me like that again," he loudly growled over the rain, wishing that he was in his normal form in order to magnify his intimidating presence.

"Are you so arrogant that you think you're above a lesson in humility?" Portia challenged, causing his blood to boil. The fire was returning to her eyes, and he was mesmerized by its intensity as he prevented her from escaping the rain or himself. Again, he felt a flare of energy from within her, and he unconsciously responded with a power spike of his own. It was becoming easier to detect her inner strength, the invisible patterns around her corresponding to what he knew of her spirit form, yet tainted by an unseen force. This human was certainly beautiful when her anger was fired, and with the rain blanketing their exchange, she was all his.

"I don't have to stand here and take this," she forcefully retaliated, and before Mehrunes could blink, he was on his back in the water, stone pressed against his soaking form as Portia quickly stepped away from his grasping hands.

"You're going to pay for that," Mehrunes spat, surging to his feet as Portia stood her ground.

"Not unless you want to make a scene, I'm not," she warned, spinning and walking away as if he couldn't touch her. Who did she think she was? Mehrunes moved quickly to catch up with her, muscles clenching in anticipation as he seized her from behind and yanked her into an alleyway, her body ramming into the wall as she gasped in surprise. Of course she wouldn't expect him to be so brutal in such a public setting, but he didn't care as he turned her, pressing her back against the wall and drilling holes into her eyes.

"You _do not_ walk away from me," he snarled, and for a moment, he saw a flash of painful concern in the woman's face before it vanished, whisked away as quickly as the water around their feet. Her defiant expression reminded him of a female dremora more than ever as she braced hands against his arms, trying to dislodge them from her shoulders, but he wouldn't move. In Oblivion, his servants often chose their mates based on who resisted them most, but the comparison to his situation was ludicrous. This human had pushed him too far.

"Not so fast," he growled, hand whipping toward her waist and closing over her sword's pommel as she reached for it.

"That's not my only weapon, and if I scream," Portia threatened, "you'll see what the inside of an Imperial prison looks like."

"That'd be a pathetic escape," he roughly replied, annoyed by her resort to underhanded means to best him.

"Unfair advantages should be used, no?" she glared. She was stunning in her ruffled and unkempt state, will blazing against his own as water worked its way over her fair skin. Hair clung to the sides of her face, and her mouth was slightly opened, breathing controlled and the lips slick.

She looked at him as an equal would, and why wouldn't she? To her, he was just another human right now, and the realization made Mehrunes remember his false identity and release her, every sense cooling his anger. Yes, hair was stuck to his neck, he smelled of earth, and when he looked at his hands, he saw tanned flesh and not red. He looked human, and he was _supposed_ to be acting like a human. If anyone had seen this, or if Portia was still a Blade, she'd be more suspicious of him than ever given his recent aggression. Would she see a parallel between him and the Mehrunes that she knew?

"You pushed me into a puddle," he digested, sounding dazed before suddenly feeling a chuckle work its way up his throat. He couldn't believe what had just happened, or how attracted he'd been to this human only seconds ago. Blood, he was still feeling aroused as his violent mood passed.

"You deserved it," Portia's voice honestly stated, and he couldn't stop looking at her green eyes, the fire gone, replaced by cool caution. He'd never seen someone with green eyes that could be so hard or gentle depending on the situation. "And I can get myself home just fine today. I have a meeting with another friend in a while anyway, or else there might be some red to wash out of my outfit. Our lunch is over." _Who is she meeting?_ The question shot through Mehrunes as Portia prepared to leave. "Go dry off, Cassius."

"I hope that our friendship isn't damaged," he taunted, noting how her clothing clung to her figure. "I might also be less forgiving next time, and you did start this." _When you chose to enter my world. _

"You're lucky that I'm not as aggressive as you are," came the less sharp response. "Goodbye, Cassius." He waited several minutes after she left before following after her, his actions half-hidden by the thick rain that separated him and the thief. He was sure that she wouldn't hold a grudge given her parting tone, and when he'd held her against the wall, there was something else in her eyes besides determination. She could have attempt to hurt him, but she didn't, and those green eyes widening even a fraction when she's noticed his vision drifting over her skin...

"Portia!" an excited voice called. "What are you doing out in the rain?" Mehrunes balked when he saw a high elf approaching Portia, Gilthan's shielding spell encompassing her as they joined ways and continued walking, their conversation lost to Mehrunes due to a million tiny splashes of water. The two were walking toward Arelius's house, and the idea annoyed the prince as he considered the elf and Imperial. They'd gone to the ball together, so maybe there was something more to the two than friends, which made a low growl form in the base of his throat.

Maybe this elf would be a good source of information. Mehrunes dwelled on the consideration as he trudged back toward Horace's home, alone in the misty streets, and quite certain that he'd never go out in the rain like this again.

________

This one was a lot of fun to write, and guess who has internet again. Yipee!


	24. Chapter 24: The Stain of Chaos

Chapter 23:

Horace stood behind the statue of Akatosh in the Arboretum, afternoon sun beating down on his neatly combed hair as he awaited Caranya's arrival. The extended wait was likely intentional, but if that was the necromancer's petty idea of revenge, he'd overlook it. Then again, he imagined that if she could, she'd zap him and transport the body to some shady basement for experimentation. Necromancers were often eccentric like that when it came to their art, and thinking over his recent experience, Horace could understand why Traven was so hellbent on eradicating the dark arts.

Caranya's raven hair and tall figure eventually came into view as the soft autumn wind played with nearby clusters of lavender. She appeared as slinky and confident as always, and Horace wondered if she would ever take him up on his offer. _Not likely_. Her pride would prevent any allowances, but the man could still imagine, even if the actualization of his thoughts would cause some concern. Dangerous women could either be exhilarating or a real curse depending on the circumstances.

"Your friend will be most pleased with what I've found, Horace," the darkly-colored Altmer purred. "It will be worth a reward, if I do say so myself."

"He'll decide," Horace replied. "And the man's hard to persuade, so I wouldn't hold my breathe. What are you here to tell me?" Caranya clasped her hands before her torso in a dainty mannerism that didn't quite suit her, and with a small frown, she narrowed her eyes at the Imperial.

"You might be more polite," she warned. "You may have dirt on me, but you've given me plenty of fuel to start a fire of my own." Horace shot her his best arrogant smile, his tone becoming condescending as he answered her.

"We both know that you wouldn't dare, necromancer, so stop playing and report."

"No artifacts have recently come into university possession," she relented, although in a bored tone that suggested she was only humoring him. "However, Traven has prepared to receive some sort of artifact that hasn't yet arrived. He mentioned it at one of the council meetings, although he wasn't very forthcoming with details. I'm sure that he's closely discussing the topic with certain mages, but let's just say that I'm not one of his favored confidants. I've also gathered that the artifact is an ornament of some kind, and an enchanted stand is set up for it in Traven's quarters."

"On second thought, I think that you'll be getting a fresh delivery soon," Horace stated. "Is that all?"

"Yes, and you can wipe that smug smile off of your face or I'll scratch it off." With a parting glare, she left him in the park, the Imperial pleased with what he could report, for she was his find, and if she did good work, it meant that he'd done good work. Mehrunes would reward him as well as her, and considering his track record thus far, he stood to gain much more from this venture than originally envisioned.

************

"Arelius knows about my problem," Portia confided in Gilthan as a servant opened the front door for them, the young man hurrying to offer them slippers since their boots were wet. "He's been a mentor to me for many years, and he's as concerned about Cassius and Horace as you are." She didn't tell him that she was a Blade, or that Arelius commanded the Blades within the city, but she could tell him this much so that he trusted the man. Perhaps telling him more wouldn't have mattered since he'd proven a true friend, but then again, the Blades were supposed to be secret, and until she knew what Arelius intended to tell the high elf, she had to be discreet.

"It sounds like this Arelius and I will get along splendidly," Gilthan cheerfully suggested. Portia hoped that they didn't get along overly well, but she kept the thought to herself as she smiled in reply.

"Just be warned: he always has his reasons."

"I heard that," the very man said as he stepped into the foyer. "You should let the man make his own decisions, Portia." But there was no bite behind his words, only an amused smile as he shook hands with the elf before him. "Arelius," he introduced himself.

"Gilthan Lorenlee, and it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm grateful that Portia has someone else looking out for her."

"She does get herself into tight situations now and then," Arelius agreed.

"Because I'm put in them against my will," Portia reminded him, a bit cross with her superior for making light of what he'd put her through. He merely inclined his head to briefly look at her with a touch of amusement as he led his company toward the sitting room where a servant was waiting with tea and light treats. Portia was sure that Lucretia wouldn't dream of inviting company over without having the servants prepare refreshments and snacks.

"I've been told that you're aware of Portia's current situation," Arelius stated, seating himself while Gilthan eagerly looked over a tray of pastries. "And you've apparently been very useful in helping her understand her situation."

"I do my best," Gilthan said, half-listening to a maid tell him that the little bun on the left of the tray was filled with jelly. "I don't like seeing the university take advantage of people, and I daresay that Traven has his eyes on fair Portia."

"He's asked Gilthan to spy on me," Portia glumly informed Arelius. "The Arch-mage wants to take the sphere as soon as he can."

"Power is very tempting," Gilthan sighed. "And he's a bit full of himself. Everyone in the guild knows it, even if they don't say it."

"I see," Arelius mused. "Then you are not against helping us despite the university's plans." Gilthan swallowed a bite of pastry, using a napkin to wipe cream away from his face as he glanced at Portia.

"Who exactly is 'us'?" he questioned, making Arelius smile.

"You were right to involve this one, Portia," he commended. "Why don't you see if Lucretia needs help with anything while Gilthan and I talk?" Portia rose against her will, knowing that she was duty-bound to listen to Arelius, but desperately wanting to remain and listen to the conversation. Who knew what he was going to tell Gilthan.

"Must I?" she challenged, causing Arelius to nod, but with a warm look that told her she'd hear all about this later. _Yeah right. _He'd omit something, or otherwise he wouldn't be sending her out of the room. "I warned you, Gilthan," she added as she shut the door behind her, inwardly debating if she was warring over this order for nothing or if she had caved too easily. She didn't want Arelius to think that she was still passionate about following his directions or so blindly supportive of the empire, although she wouldn't lie and say that the urge to act was gone. Her actions weren't for the empire, so was it selfish preservation that compelled her? Perhaps, but Kvatch's death toll bothered her, and the implication of what would happen if Mehrunes won dogged her steps.

No, she wanted this to be for something more than herself, but to go about her job solely on someone else's terms made her cringe. The idea could even ignite her anger if she dwelled on it, but her feet kept moving away from Gilthan and Arelius. The elder Blade conceded to her in some ways, but he would never let certain issues drop, and that made her wonder what he had planned for Gilthan. If he endangered her friend as he'd done to her...Her train of thought was severed as she found Lucretia in a sunny side room, a book opened on the woman's lap.

"Sometimes I don't know how you've tolerated him for years," Portia dryly commented as she took a seat by the window, eyes casually sweeping over the streets outside.

"I knew what he was like before I married him," Lucretia replied, book lowering as she took a sip of a richly scented drink that Portia didn't recognize. There was a hint of mint, and maybe some cinnamon, and the smell soothed her as she examined the thick callouses on her hands. In a matter of weeks, her palms had transformed back into how they'd looked when she'd been on active duty, and she had her teaching position to thank for that. In a way, the hard patches of skin were comforting in their familiarity and certainty of skill, but they also gave away her profession to anyone who bothered looking. How did Tamil always keep her hands so smooth?

"How are the children?" Portia asked.

"Enjoying the countryside," Lucretia gently smiled. "The grandparents have taken them to Cheydinhal for a few days, and the boys have always loved being out in nature. I'm sure they'll come home with several ruined pairs of pants." Portia smiled and wondered what it would be like to have a family and such responsibility on her shoulders. The idea wasn't very appealing, and the thought of pregnancy stretching her hip scar repulsed her. She had enough on her plate as it was.

"I'm sorry that you had to send them away," she apologized. "I didn't mean to endanger your family."

"Have you see the number of cases that Arelius has been involved in?" Lucretia calmly replied, rejecting the apology. "He has enough enemies for ten men, and we've always managed to live our lives in relative peace. Danger is no stranger here." The woman seemed so strong when Portia compared herself to Arelius's wife. Did the woman ever have a weak moment? It was hard to imagine, and Portia wondered if, like herself, Lucretia sometimes put on a front until strength became natural. Sometimes, if one pretended to be brave long enough, it actually became something real.

"You haven't had a restless night in a long time," Lucretia noted. "Perhaps the clouds are clearing a bit."

"Just because I no longer scream doesn't mean that I sleep well," Portia sighed.

"No, but it does mean that you're handling it better," Lucretia encouraged.

"Perhaps," Portia allowed, but she wasn't sure that coping was the best idea. Lately, the sphere had been less troublesome, even when Mehrunes called on her. Whereas it had once forced her against her will, she now found herself almost guiding its power, using it to resist the prince even as it bound her too him. She could even feel Mehrunes right now if she triggered the power that enveloped her body, intuitively knowing that he was restless. Mostly she avoided opening a connection, yet the ease with which she was beginning to approach the matter was a new development that she didn't understand. The sphere felt less foreign when its warmth spread over her body, almost like it was a natural, unthreatening part of her, which disturbed her greatly.

Last night, she'd been sleeping when she heard a noise outside her door, and almost instantly her senses had shot to life. Jerking upward in bed, she'd waited, the chaos sphere glowing hotly against her skin as her emotions triggered it, and she hadn't even been trying to harness its power. The ease was not something that she took lightly, and so she kept it at bay as often as possible, also fearing that it would give her away to Mehrunes Dagon. The connections she'd been sharing with him lately were increasingly odd and poignant, like last night when she'd been with Cassius, speaking of which...

Today, when Cassius had pinned her to that wall, she'd thought that the sphere would flare to life, but it hadn't. Gods, but he'd been close, and something about his intensity had swam through her veins and suffocated her ability to call on the sphere, a strange pull binding her to him in that moment and making her feel remarkably immobile and warm. The feeling had been similar to what the sphere did, but this had not felt threatening after her initial shock, the warmth infusing her whole person and making her wonder if the sphere really had remained dormant or so consumed her body that she couldn't tell where it began and she ended. Cassius had somehow been thrown into the mix yet remained distinctly separate from it.

There was also the way that the man's wrath had melted into something else bordering admiration as he held her against the stone, his dark eyes gleaming in a manner that had morphed from concentration to a near leer. The memory still played itself out in her mind as she waited for Gilthan and Arelius to call her, the female Blade pondering the significance of Cassius's ability to draw her back to him again and again despite his tendencies.

**************

Gilthan sat working on his third pastry as Arelius finished speaking, the high elf taking his time to digest the presented information before finally deciding that four pastries would be one too many.

"So Portia has been working for you the entire time," he said, simplifying Arelius's comments. "I should have guess as much. I admit that I had my suspicions since the day Traven told me to assure her that the sphere wouldn't harm her."

"Are you interested in helping us?" Arelius asked. "The empire could use the service of someone as resourceful and daring as yourself." Gilthan chuckled and wiped a few crumbs from his robe's sleeves while remembering Portia's warning and wondering how many times Arelius had conned her into doing something.

"I'm not so concerned about the empire in general," he stated. "However, I would like to see Portia get out of this alive, and life under the rule of Mehrunes Dagon doesn't appeal to me. He'd probably be Traven times twenty. So there you have it," he agreed. "I'll see what I can do to help. I've never played by rules anyway, and if you need anything, you can send Portia to tell me."

"Actually, I have something that I'd like you to agree to before you leave today." The man didn't waste time, did he? "I'd like you to keep an eye on Portia." Gilthan opened his mouth to protest, but Arelius held up a hand to calm his indignation. "Not in that sense," he corrected. "I am busy, and my other close operative is hunting down information on aristocratic Dawn members. There are other Blades, but they are not directly involved in this, and certainly not skilled enough to handle the pressure. What I need is someone to watch Portia's back when no one else can. It's a bit of a personal request, but I feel responsible for the woman's welfare as her superior."

"Well, when you put it like that," Gilthan began, collecting himself, "I would be honored to help protect her. If she ever finds out that you asked me to do so though, she'll have an...unpleasant response."

"Why do you think that I sent her out of the room?" Arelius joked. "She considers me a meddler, even if she is fond of me, so I can't get as close to her as you can. And I know for a fact that Cassius has been showing a lot of interest in her, to the point where I am wondering what he wants with her. Your continued investigating will be appreciated, and if you could make yourself available to assist her in any way possible, it would not be forgotten. Now that you know what she is doing, you can be more involved." Gilthan adopted a serious expression and nodded, his eyes closing in thought before he opened them and broke into a broad smile.

"I'm at your disposal," he promised. "And I don't suppose that I could..."

"One of the servant will wrap some pastries for you," Arelius smiled, finding the elf an odd one indeed.

"Many thanks," Gilthan beamed. "Now where has our pretty Blade gone? Portia!" He stood and exited the room ahead of Arelius, Portia quickly appearing from another room to join them. "I've had a most delightful time with Arelius here, and I must go now, but I'll be free to help you with any missions that you undertake."

"Um..." Portia looked at Arelius, who merely gave her a bank stare. "Thanks, Gilthan," she said. "We'll talk later. Are you sure that you can't stay longer?"

"I _could_," he said, sounding disappointed. "But my boss is expecting me for help with one of his projects. He's running so many at once that nothing gets done if I'm not around to help." For some reason, she felt that Gilthan was trying very hard not to laugh, but she couldn't understand why. "Don't worry," he whispered. "Arelius didn't say anything too harsh." Then, louder, "Good day!"

"Your friend is one of a kind," Arelius commented as the high elf put on his still damp shoes and headed for the door, pastries in hand. "And very concerned for your safety." Portia could tell that Arelius was eyeing her in question, trying to discern whether there was something between her and the elf, but she wouldn't give away anything.

"He's very considerate," she stated. "And what exactly did you tell him?"

"Nothing that's secret," Arelius assured. "I merely told him about our work so that he can be more helpful in the future." Portia clearly didn't believe him, but Arelius dismissed himself to attend to more important matters, his subordinate glaring at his back the entire time. It was good to have a few light moments in the midst of their demanding work, and with his back to her, he smiled, wondering how badly she wanted to throw something at him right now.

She had changed, and yet she hadn't. She was tougher, more capable of handling his orders, and more cynical by far, but she still sought his approval. It was something that he'd expected would have long since vanished since she'd become more critical of him, and he'd assumed that it had, but sometimes, when she reported, he could see the close way that she watched his responses. There was also the fact that she was here, working for him again despite her former desire to shun her prior existence, and she was as apt a pupil as ever. It would soon be time to cut the mentoring cord with Portia, but she wasn't ready to accept more duties yet, and until she was, Gilthan was a small step. Arelius would get the two to work on a mission together, which would in turn show Portia that she could be comfortable doing more than solo work. She had the potential and experience to be one of the best, and she would be.

************

Mehrunes Dagon was restless as he picked through a bowl of strawberries, searching for the largest and juiciest of the morsels as he waited for Horace to arrive. The red fruit really was quite good, and although he was only in Tamriel to further his plans, he'd found tasting different foods to be a somewhat enjoyable distraction. He'd always loved to drink, especially after battle, and his realm had wonderfully strong brews, but food was another matter entirely. As an immortal daedric prince, he didn't even require replenishment, and besides that, Oblivion's bitter crops were mostly to feed animals for their meat—not for leisurely, culinary delight. The idea of food for pleasure was totally foreign to him unless in reference to reveling in digesting a particularly difficult beast, but here, among mortals, he found himself prone to sampling and snacking. It reminded him of Sanguine with his love of wine cheese, which was a comparison that momentarily disgusted him.

"Would you like some more, my lord?" Ruined Cloak asked. The cloaked man stood near the door, unwavering as Mehrunes lounged. "The servants have been sent home for the night, but I might be of service."

"Don't bother," Mehrunes dismissed.

"Yes, my lord." The man was quite the respectful and obedient servant—his fervent desire to serve and kill the prince's enemies bordering on what Mehrunes derided as blind devotion. The enthusiasm of these Dawn members with their praise of an assumed new order sprang from somewhere that he couldn't fathom. Still, Ruined Cloak merited attention, and the killer might even be capable of besting more powerful dremora in combat, which would make him particularly valuable except for the man's utter belief in Mehrunes' intentions. When the servant realized that Mehrunes was not interested in ruling and reordering Tamriel, but in giving the empire the most violent shock of the age, what would happen to that devotion?

"Horace is here," Ruined Cloak stated, and Mehrunes absently nodded. Where had that human diplomat been all day? He hated to be kept waiting.

"My lord?" Horace's voice sounded through the door.

"Enter," Mehrunes ordered, anxious to hear what news the slippery man bore.

"The chaos sphere is not at the University, but Traven is preparing to receive a powerful artifact, and our lovely lady friend is convinced that the Arch-mage knows more than he lets on. The council has been discussing the matter of securing something for several weeks, but it's hushed. She'll let us know if and when the said artifact arrives."

"Perfect," Mehrunes nodded. "Then there are only two options left. Either the Blades have the sphere, or Portia's hidden it somewhere."

"Since she is living with the man who supposedly runs the city's Blades, I'd say the former," Horace voiced, watching Mehrunes lean into his chair.

"Arelius is a prime target," Ruined Cloak agreed. "And if he's smart, the guard's murder will have already tipped him off to our interest in him. Perhaps...forgive such a blind guess, my lord, but it's possible that he's known of the Dawn operating in the city for some time due to our arrival. I've told you of the incident on the ship, and there was nothing on the vessel to attract a thief of such skill as the dark elf whom I fought."

"Then let us find a weak link in Arelius's household," Mehrunes darkly contemplated, irked by the necessity for sneaking rather than slicing. "We need someone who can inform us of the house's activities and daytime schedule, and dumb enough to tell us. I don't want to attack prematurely and find out that the Blades have the sphere elsewhere. Blood might cause them to move it, and I haven't the time or patience to chase it to another city." Horace leaned against the doorway and gazed upon Mehrunes in speculation, the prince catching the subtle stare as the young man prepared to speak. "Yes?" he darkly anticipated.

"This Portia Augustine...you truly believe that she's keeping the sphere close to her, but for what purpose?"

"Foolish question," Ruined Cloak commented, earning a glare from Horace. "The Blades do not have headquarters like normal Imperial servants, and even the government has little idea of who they are. They would keep the sphere in personal holdings, not the palace or somewhere where another person might stumble upon it. If Arelius is the leader, then it will be with him, and Portia is with him. Think before you speak, Imperial."

"You'd best remember that this is my home that you're staying in," Horace cooly reminded the man opposite him. "And I was merely considering all angles before jumping to conclusions, _servant_." Mehrunes wondered if the two wouldn't eventually try to kill one another, but no, as amusing as that would be, they wouldn't try anything while he was there, and Ruined Cloak was very controlled.

"Enough," he ordered. "Look for a safe way into that house."

"Yes, my lord," both men responded, Ruined Cloak's bow always a bit lower than Horace's. Only when the diplomat was feeling particularly flattering did he ever bend like that or kneel, and on the one occasion where he had kneeled, Mehrunes could have sworn that he heard the man's pride cracking. "Have you anything else to share, Horace?" he asked.

"Not much, although I was speaking with some of the men whom you met at the theater, and it seems that Lenicon was seen being pulled aside by a dark elf after the show. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't care, but it is very rare to see a dark elf at the theater. Very few procure seats among the aristocracy, and no one recognized the woman." Mehrunes' eyes shifted to Ruined Cloak's cowl, and although the man appeared impassive, he knew that his servant was itching to know more. Apparently this elf was the only person to ever fight and escape from him alive. How many people had died at the dark figure's hands? He'd asked once, and been told 34 ½, the half for a man with only one arm.

"Lenicon will be handled," Mehrunes assured with a slight smile at Ruined Cloak. "Now leave me. Work begins in the morning, and no one dies without my permission. Lenicon has time yet to explain himself."

"With some persuasion?" Ruined Cloak asked, hopeful.

"Perhaps. Horace will find out more first."

"My lord." And the two left him in peace to debate where his mission was heading. It would be fairly easy to trace Lenicon's activities due to Horace's prolific social connections, and since the University was now removed as a suspect, their energies could be more focused. The sphere was probably somewhere in Arelius's house, but finding it could prove nigh impossible without caution, which killed Mehrunes to admit, but there were things to occupy him until the time came to strike—things like a certain woman whose fleeting spirit teased him almost nightly. Scarcely did he channel his powers before he could feel her floating beyond him, just out of reach, and the harder he reached, the more she seemed to pull away. How she accomplished that was a mystery beyond his understanding, for he'd controlled much of their interaction until recently.

_She's growing more accustomed to the chaos that is somehow inside of her_. And it _was_ inside of her, probably buried so deep from her strange transportation to his realm that she could barely understand or direct it. He sensed that dormant power, which stirred with his coaxing, and yet she seemed so reluctant to explore it. When he was with her as Cassius, he could smell the chaos about her, but she never harnessed it, seemingly ignorant until he pressured her. If only he could make her angry enough to amplify it, for then he'd get a closer look, and the power had such an affinity with his own that he wondered if perhaps she hadn't worn the chaos sphere.

_No_, he firmly denied, anger boiling at the thought of such blatant defiance. Mortals could not handle the power that he'd captured in the spheres, and the few that had tried had met quick, explosive ends that had, on one occasion, even wiped out an entire village. The old sage who'd helped construct the spheres had wisely feared his own creation, so if Portia were actually wearing and not just carrying the object, the effects on her would be fatal. _But what if...?_ No, there was simply no way that she could survive. _But maybe if she'd worn it for only a short time, she'd be affected but not dead_. It was something he'd often considered, for it would help explain her continued ties to him—that, or it could be an ongoing sign that the sphere was with her. _And somehow I can't directly feel it when I'm close to her?_ Mehrunes snorted in disbelief and went to his bed.

Oh, how he would love to have her firmly within his grasp and subject to his questions and will. The idea swirled through his mind as did his power as he searched for her. Even if it was futile, he liked trying, and within seconds, he'd found her, tendrils briefly touching her as she slept. He smiled as he sensed her deep sleep, her spirit barely stirring as he drew closer to her intoxicating presence, and her calm echoing throughout the abstract space in which they both dwelled. If he could just get a little closer...

Damn. She moved quickly, but not before she directed her attention to him, their spirits locking and crossing for a few seconds before he lost her. But her touch remained. He could feel her lingering presence settle over him as he relaxed on the bed and allowed her respite for the time being. It was difficult for her to avoid him, and he was sure that she'd be helpless to stop him if he were angry, but he couldn't bother with anger when he was excited about zeroing in on her. The time was coming when he'd reveal himself, and it wouldn't be much longer. Then he would see how brave she truly was, and something told him that he wouldn't be disappointed. Bloody depths of pain, but she would have made an astounding dremora, and as their conversation on Sherkyn rekindled in his memories, he couldn't help but feel that hers was the spirit of his own kind trapped in a human body.


	25. Chapter 25: Inviting Darkness

Chapter 24:

"Nothing's known about the man," Tamil declared with a grin, her anticipation heard well before she appeared. Portia stepped out of her room and found the dark elf standing before her, green tattoos around her jaw pulled taut by her lengthy smile.

"Nothing's known about who?" Portia asked, having just woken up. It was unlike Tamil to be this chipper in the morning, and Portia hadn't even seen the elf for almost two days. Of course, she'd been too preoccupied to notice with Arelius meeting Gilthan, and Mehrunes hounding her at night, but she was assuming that Tamil had been busy.

"Your friend Cassius doesn't exist," Tamil told her, and Portia immediately sparked to life, her features stilling into a dark mask as the words hit her. "I got the letter yesterday, and after some quick document hunting, it's official that the Matrino family is long dead and buried. I thought that I'd come tell you before going to the office." The elf wore a conspiring smile that put Portia on guard despite the woman's attempt to be helpful.

"So who is he?" she asked.

"I don't know," Tamil replied with a casual shrug. "But I intend to find out, or rather, I'm sure that you'll be assigned to the task." Portia couldn't argue and closed her bedroom door, but not before Tamil's eyes caught sight of the bloody bandages on her bed. "We'll pay them back, Portia," she vowed with a wild glint in her eye. "For everything." Portia's eyes inadvertently wandered toward the elf's gut as the slimmer woman spun and marched off to find Arelius. "No one poisons me and gets away with it—ever." As if she had experience with such wounds, or maybe she did. Portia wouldn't discount the possibility, for even now, Tamil's blue sleeves were rolled up, and an ugly scar could be seen across the woman's elbow. Gods knew where she'd gotten it.

"You're very happy this morning," Portia commented. "You're usually in bed when I'm leaving for work."

"That's because I'm a night owl," Tamil answered. "But today..." She glanced over her shoulder with a feral, half-smile that reminded Portia of a cat about to pounce. "Today, I have substantial leads to follow." Portia wondered if it was Lenicon, but she dared not mention the name while servants might be afoot. Lucretia hired her staff carefully, and from what Portia had seen, they were loyal, but there was always a loose end, and so business was kept hushed. That Tamil had come directly to her room in order to mention Cassius showed the extent of the dark elf's high spirits, and Portia had indeed noticed how malcontent Tamil became when work hit a snag. This would be a boon for the woman.

"Sir?" Tamil called as she knocked on Arelius's study door, but there was no answer.

"Over here," Portia called, standing by the window and looking down into the courtyard. Arelius stood speaking to a messenger, a tree's leaves obscuring a clear view of the two. "Let's hope that the news is good."

"Or ill so long as it's useful," Tamil added, heading for the stairs. "There's only one way to find out." Portia followed, feet padding lightly across the grass outside, and browning blossoms brushing against her soles. The garden's flowering trees had released their colors and left the blooms of summer to rot while heavy greens and specks of yellow took their place. Most trees in the capitol did not change color with the seasons, but there would be a few reds and oranges as fall deepened, and many ground flowers would continue to brighten nature until the first frost. Portia noted that it would soon be time to buy a new cloak for chillier days and even cooler nights.

"Good morning," Arelius greeted, voice devoid of warmth as he scanned the contents of a scroll. With a steady face, he rerolled the parchment, his lack of comment making Portia wonder if something hadn't happened to the children. The messenger looked like he'd ridden some distance with her road-weary clothing. "What brings you out in the morning daylight, Tamil?" Arelius asked.

"Very funny," the dark elf sarcastically replied. "I'd like a moment of your time, if you've some to spare. There have been new developments." Portia looked to her right as two doves landed on a tree branch, their soft voices crooning to one another as Arelius called for a servant and dismissed the messenger. She'd never been fond of doves, for they were dense and sluggish, but there was something relaxing and even charming about how they sat together and bobbed their heads as one. Loyalty was their creed, and one that Portia admired, so perhaps she had more in common with the birds than she'd ever considered; however, did such a bond between individuals require the gentle, calm nature of a dove?

"Bri," Arelius was saying. "Deliver this to Lucretia, and tell her that I already sent the messenger to the kitchen for some refreshments. She might find him there if she wishes to send a package to replace what the children have destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Portia questioned, watching as the doves took to flight, following one another into the blue sky above.

"Their wardrobes have shrunk since leaving," Arelius told her. "Not that I'm surprised, but back to the business at hand. What's happened?"

"Cassius doesn't exist, and wormy Lenicon might be willing to cooperate with us if we can completely clear his name and offer monetary incentives. Apparently he's less than impressed with the Mythic Dawn's activities as of late, and he wants out before the whole organization goes to Oblivion in a satchel. He'd like to meet in a week or so, once he's ensured that no one's watching him."

"Then it sounds like we have plans to make," Arelius approved. "The quickest way to find information on Cassius is probably to search his quarters, which is illegal, so you never heard anything from me. If one of you gets caught, it's on your own head until the Blade master can clear your name with his authority."

"So we need a distraction," Portia assumed. "And I can guess who's going to be assigned to that." Arelius smiled and glanced at Tamil, who looked away with a shadowed grin.

"Yes, but I'd rather you not do this alone now that we have more than intuition to guide our suspicions about Cassius and Horace. Perhaps your Altmer friend will be of service sooner than expected. Find him and request his help instead of going anywhere alone with our suspects."

"I can handle myself," Portia intoned, gaze locking with his, but the man didn't give an inch. "You know how I feel about co-op missions, Arelius." His hard eyes showed no sympathy as he dismissed her concerns.

"You'll do what's required, and not needlessly risk your own safety." For a moment, they simply stared at each other, Portia inwardly fuming at his intrusion on her comfort zone, but there was nothing that she could do short of deserting the investigation, which would get her nowhere. If something happened to Gilthan because of her..._he would be a decent partner for this, and Arelius is right: you can't throw your life away when so much depends on it_.

"Let's get this over with," she stated, cold eyes brushing from Arelius to Tamil, who was utterly unfazed by the tense atmosphere. Plans began to form, the three moving to Arelius's office to discuss details, and Portia finding herself more and more on edge. She would be working with other people, and Tamil's safety would depend on her timing and behavior. More than that though was the fact that they were searching for information on Cassius, and while Portia knew that he was dangerous, sensing something and finding concrete evidence were different matters entirely. After seeing him with Lenicon at the theater, and knowing Lenicon's past...damn, but Cassius wasn't even the man's real name, and he'd been touching her, sitting with her in a library to discuss daedric, and inviting her to lunch. If he wasn't just a dangerous man, but a legitimate Dawn member, why was he so interested in her? Did he know about the sphere?

_Sometimes I forget that he's nothing more than a suspect, and a very incriminated one at that_. The question was, since she'd known that all along, why did she find herself being attracted to him? Why was he familiar before she'd even known him, and why did she find herself overlooking that he might want to kill her? When they'd been in the alley, he'd looked like a man about to either ravage or murder her, and yet she hadn't reacted out of fear—as if she'd somehow sensed that he wouldn't damage her. There was simply something about the man that loomed over her the closer that she got to him.

"Let's do this," Tamil darkly proclaimed, Portia staring at the dark tattoos branching across the woman's cheeks and jaw.

"Okay," she automatically agreed. This was not going to be the most comfortable job.

*****************

"Sir," the servant bowed. "There is a lady asking after you and Sir Cassius. She's waiting in the sitting room. Shall I tell her that you'll see her?" Horace glanced at Mehrunes, who was watching the servant with interest.

"A lady?" the prince questioned, hoping that it wasn't an annoying visitor wishing to invite them to another event where he'd be asked a million questions about himself. He was sick of entertaining their questions, and he didn't keep his calm as easily as Horace did.

"Tell her that we'll be down," Horace instructed, also intrigued. "Perhaps Caranya has learned more."

"One can hope, but she might also be here to ask after your company," Mehrunes taunted, leading the way downstairs and toward the foyer. Already, he could hear the woman's soft pacing, but only boots would make such noise—not a lady's slippers, which made him wonder who'd come to see him. Then he stepped through the doorway and found himself looking at _her_ with her braided hair that exposed a slender neck and distracted eyes. She was here, in a private setting where he could detain her, and the thought made him eagerly step forward to take her hand for yet another kiss.

"Lady Augustine, what brings you to my humble abode?" Horace asked before Mehrunes could act, the mortal passing him to do the honors of a kiss. The prince hid his frown and watched as Portia retracted her hand a bit too quickly from Horace's grasp.

"Horace," she greeted. "Cassius." Her eyes flickered to his, and he would have ensnared her had she not so quickly refocused elsewhere. "I came to see if you are both free tonight. I feel that I must repay you for allowing me to share your balcony at the theater, and so, would you be interested in dinner?"

"We'd be delighted," Mehrunes immediately answered, intrigued by the woman's desire to take them out for the evening. Then again, his identity was secret, and he'd been lavishing attention on her, so perhaps she did feel that this would be proper. _Or something's going on_. Too bad that Horace would be coming along, or he might be left alone with Portia yet again.

"What time would you like us to be ready?" Horace questioned.

"Six o'clock, and the location's a surprise, so don't ask. Just don't come in tattered clothing," Portia smiled, attention lingering on Cassius's fairly reserved behavior. He was still puzzling over her decision to come here, but if luck had given him this gift for the evening, he wouldn't waste it. Besides, two Dawn members would be home tonight, so any designs that enemies might harbor would be met by death, and the assurance freed him to indulge in time with his favorite mortal.

"We'll be ready," Horace promised Portia. "And thank you for your generous offer."

"It's the least that I can do," Portia replied with a polite dip of her head.

"I don't know if I should trust your surprises," Mehrunes dryly commented, arms crossed over his chest, and his remark earning a cool glance from Horace.

"You dried off, so don't complain," Portia retorted, a teasing undertone to her voice, but face far too serious to match the joke. She was probing his expression, and he responded with a smirk as he stepped forward to take her hand.

"Next time, I might show you a few surprises of my own," he whispered, lips pressing against her deliciously warm skin.

"I don't doubt it," came a soft reply. "Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I must prepare lessons for my students."

"Until this evening then," Horace pleasantly answered, preparing to leave the room as Mehrunes remained close to Portia.

"I look forward to your company, Sherkyn," he almost purred, watching her look up at his face. "_A shame that the company is larger this time_." He could not read her reaction, but she dipped her head and turned to leave.

"_There will be other nights, Cassius."_ Yes, there would be. Mehrunes walked by Horace without deigning to indulge the man's curiosity over the foreign language that had been heard, and was thrilled by the secret messages that so freely passed between himself and the Sherkyn. He moved upstairs, and Mehrunes grabbed a few coins in preparation for an outing to the Arena. Perhaps a little bloodshed and good, old-fashioned combat would speed the passing of hours, and so he left the manor to inspect the quality of duels in this city. As he pictured Portia walking away with a sword swaying at her side and a covert agenda in her hands, he found himself willing sand faster through the glass.

***************

_Portia,_

_I'd be delighted to help, and I fully realize how dangerous this could be. Thank you for the warning and concern, but I would never say no to a request like this. If I can handle exposure to exploding chemicals in the alchemy shop, I can risk a few cult fanatics. See you tonight, lovely!_

_Gilthan_

Portia reread the note again before tucking it inside of her outfit, Gilthan's typical confidence reassuring her, and yet not completely dismissing the concerns at the back of her mind. She was sure that the elf could handle himself, but there was no reason for him to be so heavily involved in her problems. _It's his decision_, she reminded herself._ You told him everything that could happen, and he's accepted it like Tamil and Arelius have. _She wouldn't let doubt spoil this mission when hers was but a small part of tonight's charade, and with Gilthan at her side, Cassius might not exert such a domineering presence over her.

"Here I go," Portia breathed. Her black gown barely reached the ground as a hand checked the laces on her back to ensure that the crisscrossing, gold strings were securely in place. Black and gold was not a popular combination for an evening out, for black was the color of night, necromancy, and darker forces, but it was her choice for this evening. Originally Portia had completely overlooked the idea until she'd come across the dress in the back of Divine Elegance, whereupon she was advised by others not to buy it, but she'd gone ahead with the purchase anyway, realizing that the dark and uncanny choice would, in fact, attract the approval of her guests this evening.

So here she stood, fitted gown crossing her chest with a square neckline that exposed a hint of cleavage and left ample room for the pendant that she wore—also gold, but decorated with purple quartz. It matched the dress since the black fabric was interwoven with purple and blue, the subtle colors shimmering whenever she passed through light, and making the dress quite fetching as Lucretia had commented. The only thing that Portia worried about were the slits in the bottom of the dress, for while completely concealed beneath overlapping sections of billowing cloth, she was still paranoid that somehow her legs would be exposed, and she didn't need someone like Horace eyeing her legs.

Adjusting the gold belt about her waist, she approached the said man's house, her eyes roaming toward the alley across the street where Tamil would be waiting. For a second, she saw the elf's shadowed form appear and grant her a small nod before her fist was knocking against hard wood. A servant would greet her, and then she'd take the men to dinner, where they would be entertained into the night. Keeping Cassius's attention would not be difficult, but Horace...Akatosh protect her, but she prayed that flashing skin and smiles wasn't the only way to keep the man in his seat.

"Good evening, Lady Augustine," Horace greeted as a servant opened the door for her. She stepped inside, glad that her hair was pulled back into a braid so that nothing obstructed her view of the men before her. Horace looked charming and smart as always, and Cassius was sporting a rich cream and maroon outfit that suited his darker complexion. Portia curtsied while remembering her earlier trip and how Cassius had suggested that he preferred their time to be more private—not with others—and she again considered what his role in the Dawn might be. Was he merely keeping an eye on her? She found it hard to believe that anyone could fake the current, appraising look that he was giving her, his vision fixed on and digesting her appearance with interest. If he was an enemy, he never even attempted to be professional.

"Are you ready to go, gentlemen?" she asked.

"Lead the way," Cassius smiled, offering her his arm before Horace beat him to it, for Portia had already noticed Horace preparing to approach her. "Black is becoming color on you," he continued. "Red would have been a nice compliment." A vision of Oblivion with its shades of red on black crossed Portia's mind, but she brushed it aside as she led the men outside and down the street.

"Thank you, Cassius. I hope that this evening is enjoyable for both of you, and I'm honored to have your company."

"It's our pleasure," Horace assured. "And it's no burden to accompany such a lovely vision as yourself." Gods, there was the charm. If the man weren't such a scoundrel, he'd have landed a beautiful and wealthy wife long ago, but Portia imagined that his reputation for philandering proceeded him. It was a wonder that any woman agreed to be intimate with him, for the idea certainly repulsed the woman he was currently watching. However, curious as it was, Portia noticed that Horace was being careful not to stare at her, and especially not in any way that hinted at sexual interest. She'd noted his appreciative regard for her figure when she'd first entered his home, but it had been gone when she'd lifted out of her curtsy, and Cassius had been staring at Horace. She had failed to observe the nature of their exchange, but it wasn't her concern so long as Horace kept his eyes where they belonged.

"Where are we going, Portia?" Cassius inquired.

"You'll have to wait and see."

"He's not very patient," Horace warned. "Not when it's unnecessary."

"He'll just have to deal with it," Portia shot back, hearing a low growl in Cassius's throat. Walking beside him, she could feel a hard edge tucked into the side of his belt, and with a frown, she looked up at him. "Are you expecting to be attacked?" she asked. "Really, a knife isn't needed for dinner."

"Hmph," Cassius replied. "And I suppose that _you_ are weaponless?" When she didn't reply, he smirked. "As I thought."

"Is this our destination?" Horace asked. They were standing before a dark archway that seemingly led into nothingness.

"It's an illusion," Portia explained. "Because this is a residential area, and the neighbors complain about light, the publican had to be inventive. This way." They passed under the arch and into the corridor beyond to suddenly find it brightly lit by glass lanterns that were fixed in a perfectly straight line down either wall. The clutter of an alley had also transformed, the formerly earthen floor now a stone pathway leading toward the sound of harps and flutes.

"Illustra," Horace knowingly stated. "I've been told of this place, but I've never been here before. This is a true treat, my lady."

"See," Portia told Cassius. "Not all surprises are bad." She released his arm and moved forward, gown glittering in the lamplight as the music grew louder. Already they could hear laughter and low conversation, and reaching the end of the hallway, they stepped onto a large landing that led down into a dining room. Each table was sectioned off by walls overflowing with ivy and small, purple flowers, and even the pathways between tables were covered by an arbor of grapes, from which the restaurant made its own wine. Hanging lanterns scattered light between leaves and left mismatched patterns on the floor, and servers bustled to and fro with trays and baskets of steaming bread, the smell reaching Portia's nose as a man advanced on her.

"Name please," he requested.

"Portia Augustine. My friends and I are expected." The man hurried to a book and scanned through it before smiling and motioned for the newcomers to follow him.

"This way please. Your table is right over here."

"Are the flowers enchanted?" Horace asked, reaching out and plucking a small blossom and stem from the wall. Portia missed seeing the action since she walked ahead of her company, meaning that she was also oblivious to Horace passing the flower to Cassius as the server explained how a local gardener tended the flowers.

"If you don't, I won't be able to resist," Horace whispered to his lord, making the prince scoff as they were motioned toward an opening in the wall.

"Let him go first," Cassius instructed in Portia's ear, causing her to remain while Horace passed them to find a seat.

"Why...?" Portia found the man too close for comfort yet again as one of his hands lifted and slipped a flower into the hair above her ear. What was he up to? She knew that the gesture could be taken romantically, but she found it hard to believe that Cassius possessed a single romantic bone, and why the hell would he be directing that sort of attention toward her anyway?

"The color matches," he quietly told her, but with a taunting, arrogant smile that was so natural to him. She hated feeling that he was laughing at some private joke concerning her, and pulling away, she watched as Cassius unexpectedly froze at the head of the table.

"Portia!" Gilthan greeted with a toothy grin. "You came, _and_ you brought company." Considering the scowl on Cassius's face, the evening would perhaps require some maintenance.


	26. Chapter 26: An Irresistible Pull

Chapter 25:

Quick. Quiet.

Tamil was inside the manor in a heartbeat, the door unlocked through expert experience, and her body invisible as she moved through the foyer. There were advantages to being born under the Shadow, and she used them now as she glided deeper into the house. There were still servants afoot, but they were finishing their chores for the evening and would soon leave, their perfunctory movements telling all as Tamil avoided one dusting in the sitting room.

Horace certainly had stylish and expensive taste, for his home was furnished with the latest, although Tamil's eyes picked out scratches and flaws in tables and bookshelves that suggested secondhand goods. Perhaps he wasn't as well off as he pretended, which would explain his draw toward dark promises. Eyeing a red rug that stretched beneath the dining room table, Tamil crept along its length and almost chortled as she noticed an elderly manservant glowering at a painting of a nearly nude female. The old man probably found Horace's activities appalling.

_Downstairs first, then upstairs_.

Tamil passed through the kitchen and toward a storage room, where the most incriminating evidence consisted of a half-eaten slice of pie. Apparently the staff took to snacking behind their master's back, and cataloging such details seemed pointless, but Tamil knew better than to overlook the most innocent facts. Hands ran along walls, looking for hidden passageways, and she lifted paintings to check for panels, for the common carried potential importance. Already, she was learning much of the house's character, and she was quick to notice that although the servants worked slower when alone, they did work, and they didn't talk when they passed one another, as if they were scared of drawing attention to themselves.

"Be careful!" one hissed when another nearly knocked a vase from a stand.

"No one's here," the other servant spat, equally quiet.

"You don't know that." Tamil listened and moved on, now guarded than before. She could sense the tension among the staff, and feel the coldness of the walls. This was not a cheerful residence, at least not as of late, and as she neared the basement, she paused at the doorway leading down, door cracked open. Someone was moving around down there, and being caught in the dark, tight corridors of the basement would either mean killing someone or being seen, both of which would be a disaster. No, she'd wait until the servant came upstairs, and until then, it was time to move on to the next room.

************

"How is everyone?" Portia asked, seating herself beside Gilthan, who was accompanied by another mage. The woman sat on the other side of the rectangular table, Horace next to her, and Cassius sitting beside Portia. The server stood overlooking the scene and began taking orders, but Portia was far more interested in the apparent displeasure of Cassius. Gods, but she couldn't let him grow irritated and leave, which she knew was a threat when he became bored or annoyed. Given his blatant interest in her, she was counting on her presence being enough to anchor him here, but there was never any guarantee with this man.

"We're doing fine, Portia," Gilthan beamed. "Especially since the wine has arrived. Goblets for everyone, sir," he motioned to the server. "This lovely Breton here is Flora, a battle mage. She's traveled extensively and loves discussing work, to my great displeasure." The Breton was very young, with a sweet, round face and full lips, and Portia was assuming that she'd been brought for Horace's attention. "Horace, how have..." Gilthan's voice trailed off as Portia turned toward Cassius, feeling his dark gaze upon her.

"_Horace will be happy_," she commented in daedric, causing Cassius's frown to melt into a smirk.

"_He hasn't had much luck with women lately_," the man replied, filling his glass and the one next to his for Portia.

"Not so much," she instructed, but he filled the goblet almost to the rim before passing the bottle down the table. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that you've been taking lessons from your friend." Portia touched the flower in her hair for emphasis, silky petals sliding across her fingers as Cassius continued to smirk, his eyes occasionally rolling toward Gilthan, who Portia sensed was watching them.

"Are you suggesting that I need prodded to be sweet?" he tauntingly asked, one elbow propped on the table as he lifted his goblet.

"There's nothing sweet about you," Portia gruffly informed him, her polite and proper exterior melting as it tended to do in this man's presence. Her comment made Cassius chuckle as he downed a glass in one fell swoop and reached for the bread at the table's center.

"That hurts, Sherkyn."

"Portia, would you like some bread?" Gilthan asked, golden features pleasantly situated into a warm smile. He was holding out a buttered roll for her, and she gladly accepted it, her stomach empty and begging for some comfort.

"Thank you," she spoke, taking a bite and smiling as she noted Gilthan's perplexed expression. "What?" she asked.

"There's a flower in your hair," the elf laughed, running a hand over his head to smooth down his pale hair. "Gods above, Portia, I never thought that I'd see you wearing such a playful token. I like it." Portia smiled and nodded to Gilthan in appreciation as she noticed that the Breton and Horace were in deep conversation concerning current Imperial policies in the north. Thank you Akatosh, but the woman would give the diplomat's mind and eyes something to engage.

"You're welcome," Gilthan enigmatically stated when he noticed the direction of Portia's gaze, and then he turned eyes on Cassius. "I didn't realize that you speak daedric, sir. When did you acquire that talent?"

"It came quite naturally," Cassius smirked. "So naturally, in fact, that I no longer remember learning it." Gilthan poured more wine and considered the answer, his more serious mood apparent to Portia. Maybe it was the fact that this was his first official mission, but she wouldn't have thought that such a thing would sober him, for she'd fully expected a perky performance from him this evening. Instead, his fine, slender features were fairly reserved in expression, and his hands weren't wildly gesturing as he spoke.

"You must be very talented," Gilthan was telling Cassius, causing Portia to snap out of studying the elf's strange behavior.

"Yes, but there are others with equal skill. Portia's daedric is brilliant," Cassius commented.

"And self-taught as I understand. That's Portia for you, but I'm very interested in knowing whether you're a scholar or merely a 'student by accident', as the University calls it. And I mean no slander by that," Gilthan quickly added. "Please don't think that I'm being rude."

"Not at all," Cassius dismissed, appearing bored as he glanced toward an approaching waiter that carried a large tray. "I'm no professional scholar, but I do enjoy an occasional project. I'm actually working on something right now."

"And what would that be?" Flora asked. "Are you as educated on politics as your friend here?" Horace was looking at his best as he leaned back and lazily stretched, handsome face smiling at the young girl beside him.

"I'm a diplomat," Cassius shrugged. "But my project has nothing to do with that. It's a delicate matter that I'd prefer not to discuss. Maybe once it's finished. Then you'll know—everyone will." He smirked at Horace before the server announced their courses, plates going around the table, and another bottle of wine presented since the first was drained. The food looked divine, but smelled even better, and Portia figured that it better taste amazing for what she was paying.

"I'm in heaven," Gilthan joked as he dug into his meal. It was a sentiment that Portia inwardly agreed with as she took a bite of elderberry-glazed duck, flavor washing over her tongue while she noted the steak on a plate beside hers.

"No vegetables, Cassius?" she teased, again registering his sharp canines as he smiled. His hands moved expertly with the knife, slicing his meat and letting blood flow across his plate as the rare flesh was divided. It was far too bloody for Portia's taste.

"I'm more of a carnivore," Cassius replied. "Although I love..." He paused in cutting his food and looked to Horace in question. "The red things."

"Strawberries and apples," Horace said with a forcefully hidden frown, or what Portia thought was a frown, for the strained quality of the man's expression was obscured by the random splotches of shadow and light that fell across the table due to the arbor above.

"Yes," Cassius agreed. _How the hell could he forget what strawberries and apples are called?_ Portia found the matter peculiar as Gilthan nudged her beneath the table.

"Sherkyn?" he quietly questioned.

"I'll explain later," she whispered while Cassius and Horace were talking.

"I know what it means," Gilthan frowned. "But it's only mentioned in one surviving copy of a book that I lent you." He actually frowned, which unsettled Portia as she returned to her food, Cassius now closely watching her blank face. He leaned closer toward her with a taunting tug to his lips, mouth nearly brushing her earlobe, and sending an unexpected jolt through her body.

"You haven't touched your wine," he teased.

"Because I remember the last one," she sharply replied.

"I didn't pick this one, so it's safe...and far less pleasing." So he was fully aware of the danger that he'd put her in before. Portia was tempted to glare at him, but the conversation was moving on, and she was swept along with it. So far, so good, except for the unexpected and irrational dislike that Cassius seemed to hold against Gilthan, which might have been expected from the arrogant man. What was more troubling was that the feeling was becoming increasingly mutual and apparent as the meal progressed. When Gilthan had said that he didn't like or trust Cassius, he hadn't been joking.

_Nothing can ever be simple_, Portia decided. For a mere dinner party, she felt pressured to keep a careful an eye on everyone, and the chaos sphere was kindling to life for unexplained reasons. By the Nine, where was this evening going?

****************

She was made for that dress. Mehrunes could see flashes of flesh as Portia crossed her legs, the action revealing a multitude of sheer, black layers as the dress fell into place, and when she tilted her head to speak with Gilthan he stared at the necklace dropping toward her cleavage. He again felt a wave of attraction come over his body as he watched this mortal, but no amount of bust or leg was more attractive than the hint of a scar running across the side of Portia's neck. She wasn't just any woman, and the marks of past battles made him wish to see her in combat again. He could picture her standing on a precipice in the Deadlands, lava flowing below her, and red, hot wind blowing her hair behind her like a banner. She had looked so wild and untamed when she'd escaped her prison and attacked him, leaving several dead dremora in her wake. Their blood had still clung to her hands and feet when he'd found her in his private chambers.

Mehrunes had the urge to reach out and run a sharp nail down the side of Portia's face if only to see the red of her blood rise to the surface. It had been some time since he'd seen her essence, and he was willing to bet that hers was a rich, thick red to match her spirit. He could sense chaos as his mouth drew toward her ear, and he absently wondered why she wore a necklace but no earrings since her ears were pierced. Yes, the power was there, swimming beneath the surface and waiting to be triggered. No wonder she had slain his servants.

"_Does he speak daedric_?" Mehrunes asked, referring to Gilthan.

"_Not well_," Portia replied. "_Our words are our own_." He smiled at the idea, gleefully watching as the elf cooly glanced at him, clearly wondering what was being said.

"_I don't suppose that you'd favor a walk_?" he taunted.

"_No. Every time we go for a walk, I end up going home extremely late or bruised_."

"_When did I last bruise you_?" Mehrunes continued to bait her.

"_When you slammed me into a wall_," Portia tartly reminded.

"My apologies, Sherkyn. You crossed a line—something that seems habitual for you." She gave him a questioning look before Gilthan pulled her back into conversation, breaking the bubble in which Mehrunes had held the woman. The elf was certainly an obnoxious interference, and Mehrunes briefly imagined Gilthan dangling in a cage above a corpse masher. Then the cage's bottom would drop out, and the problem would be solved.

Mehrunes could tell that the elf didn't like him, for Gilthan was far more carefree and joking with the others, and cold, stolen glances were constant whenever Mehrunes pulled Portia into private conversation. It was irritating, and not to mention suspicious. Portia might not trust a handsome Imperial that mocked her, but she concealed it well, and Mehrunes would have said the same for this elf had he not utilized closer scrutiny. How could the prince not sharpen his eyes when the Altmer kept making Portia laugh and drawing her aside, even reaching out to straighten the flower in her hair?

_Damn, bloody mortal_. The mage was suspicious, and people who bantered and joked so carelessly were either one of two things in Mehrunes' experience: total morons, or far more dangerous and powerful than they appeared, and in this case, he was willing to bet on the latter. Was it his imagination, or could he sense the elf channeling magicka? Oh, it wasn't enough for concern, but it suggested that a spell might be cast, even covertly, and Mehrunes hated when people tried to slip actions by him. Obviously the elf was close to Portia, but how close? And was he also a Blade?

"You're going to bend the knife if you grip it any harder," Horace urgently whispered, his mouth hidden by his goblet. Mehrunes released the knife that he'd unconsciously been squeezing and set it aside, eating bite after bite of meat as he watched Portia uncross her legs, again exposing a creamy patch of skin. Mehrunes wondered why mortals tendered to cover themselves so carefully when female dremora walked around scantily clad in their free time. Short, plated skirts girdled their waists while sleeveless tunics kept the essentials atop in place, and that was everyday wear unless they were sparring or on duty.

And female Xivilai? They went topless most of the time, making them tempting treats that he'd sometimes indulged in, but this skin before him now...Mehrunes looked up to find Gilthan's eyebrows arched, the elf clearly surprised by his interest in Portia's body. Well, it wasn't like the prince of destruction was a sexual recluse, but let the elf think whatever he wanted. It was true that, as a daedra, he was careful who he bedded lest one of his minions challenge him to a futile duel over honor and rights, but there were plenty of available females in Oblivion who were proud to share his bed. He wasn't a sex fiend like Molag Bal, but if the urge hit him, he took what was on hand without any qualms, especially during decades of boredom like recently.

"Portia, you haven't visited me in a while," Gilthan complained, smiling as he tapped her nose with one of his fingers. What a childish gesture. "Perhaps you'd like to come visit my summer home in Skingrad some time." Portia laughed, and Mehrunes bristled, not finding the elf's close proximity to her favorable in the least. The thief was his, and his mind didn't delve into the issue of why he was so annoyed by this elf or possessive of the woman beside him. It didn't matter when his anger began to rise. All that mattered was clarifying the issue and ensuring that what was his didn't wander off. Skingrad? Hell no. Portia was staying right here, in the capitol with him, and anything that threatened to move her beyond his reach would be removed—forcefully.

"Are you okay?" Flora asked Portia. "You look pale." Yes, she did look pale, a hand moving to her forehead for a moment before she settled back into her seat, muscles loosening from unanticipated tension. _That's it_, Mehrunes inwardly smiled. His spike in anger had affected her, and given a little more pushing, she would need to excuse herself so that she could concentrate on working his emotions out of her head. So he pushed, fueling his fire with the desire to see Gilthan spontaneously combust and Portia backed into a corner without a friend to help her. He would make her feel helpless.

"I'm sorry," Portia said, standing. "I'm going to step out for a moment. I'll be back." She exited their booth, lost among walls of ivy within seconds, and Mehrunes' eyes trailed after her.

"I hope that she's okay," Flora stated, looking to Gilthan in question.

"Perhaps I had better check on her," Mehrunes offered, faking worry as he too stood. Before anyone could protest, he was moving out into the aisle, grapes drooping overhead, and lanterns flickering. It wouldn't take long to find her, or so he assumed as he began walking, a strange, cooling sensation briefly touching his back. Magic? He turned in question, but Gilthan was only sharing a joke with Flora and Horace. His eyes narrowed before he continued, a dark shadow to his left telling him that Ruined Cloak was nearby.

"My lord," a voice whispered. "He's cast a revealing charm on you."

"What?" Mehrunes demanded, much louder than he'd intended.

"The chaos sphere, my lord," Ruined Cloak hastily continued. "He'll have detected it if his spell was accurate. It's too powerful an artifact to be dismissed as a mere enchantment." Fetching elf!

"Take him," Mehrunes ordered. "Don't kill him yet, but make sure that he never makes it home."

"Understood, my lord." Anger boiling, Mehrunes suddenly found it easier to locate Portia, sensing her up ahead behind a heavily flowering wall. The elf would pay for interfering with him, and if Gilthan was suspicious enough to cast such a spell, had he shared his concerns with Portia? If the game had been ruined because of... Mehrunes' fists tightened, itching for a weapon as he rounded the corner and began closing in on Portia.

**************

Darkness and silence were Tamil's only companions in the gloom of Horace's basement. She had entered the lower part of the house once the servants left for the night, and now she stood before a small crate in a shadowed corner. The place was rather messy and lacked foodstuffs or tools, so she couldn't understand what a servant would be doing down here, but then again, perhaps it hadn't been a servant. The dank air descended on her as she expertly moved hands over the wooden surface before her. There were no torches, but nighteye served her well in these dark places. Glowing vision scanning the area, she was more than ready to open and search every crate in this place.

She lifted the lid of the box before her only to find empty serving bowls, and so it was onto the next. Rounding a pillar, she was examining an empty crate when her eyes drifted toward a trail of muddy footprints that led further into the dark. How would mud be here, in an aristocrat's basement? Intrigued, she moved forward, a dagger loosely held in one hand as she advanced on what looked like a dead end. No, it wasn't merely a dead end, for faint light invaded the darkness from a barely visible pathway cut into the stone. Who...?

"I heard something," a voice sounded, and Tamil immediately backtracked into the darkness. The light was drawing closer, and if she didn't move quickly, they'd see her, whoever they were. Calmly and quietly, she slunk toward the empty crate that she'd seen, and climbed inside, the lid shutting over her as the voices grew louder.

"One of the servants, probably."

"They've been ordered not to come here," the other protested. "We should check the house." Damn. Suddenly, finishing her mission was looking much more difficult, but this might be the only evidence that she needed. If only she could...

Raising the lid by a fraction, she attempted to peer out but was forced to retreat when a loud noise startled her. They'd gone upstairs, so maybe she could wait until they returned to their original location, and then she could leave. Hopefully Portia could keep Cassius and Horace away for a while longer.

*************

She could feel Cassius at her back, and imagine his obsidian depths boring into her, but she kept her eyes closed in concentration. Mehrunes was angry about something, and his wrath hit her in crippling surges, causing blood to seep from her wound and make her head spin. He was close to locking onto her location, and if she didn't find a way to overcome his drive, she would lose herself to her spirit form, and she couldn't risk that now. Tamil could die if she didn't buy the dark elf enough time, and the others would think her weak and incapable of working.

_Come on, Portia. _

Cassius was getting closer, and for a moment, she almost mistook him for Mehrunes Dagon himself, the very idea making her sweat as her fingers dug into the vines behind her. She was leaning against the wall, flower buds tickling her neck, and Cassius drawing ever closer. Was he angry with her? She shook her head, trying to think clearly, for the vibes assaulting her seemed to come from everywhere—even him, and the sphere was glowing so hotly against her that it was a wonder that the invisibility spell still held.

"Lady Augustine?" She didn't respond, even as she felt him step in front of her. "Portia," Cassius insisted. "Open your eyes." She did so, finding his voice compelling as the tension around her eased. Mehrunes' mood had passed, and she was left in this deserted corridor with a man who possessed influence and command to be envied.

"I just needed some space and air," Portia lamely explained. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine, Sherkyn," Cassius countered. He was close again, overbearing as he stood there before her, and she wondered why her body felt lighter. Part of her had drifted into the spirit world, and it was only slowly returning—a process that would be faster if she weren't so dazed. What was wrong with her? She'd been using the sphere's own power to repel Mehrunes for days, and simply by being caught off guard, she was floundering for control. It was another reminder that she was no master of the powers encircling her.

"You're not giving me space," Portia lowly noted.

"No, I suppose I'm not," Cassius smiled, one hand coming up to rest against the arbor. "But I too needed some air. I don't do social chatter very well."

"That's a lie," Portia argued. "It's the topic that needs to suite you." Cassius chuckled and placed the other hand on the wall, effectively blocking Portia's possible paths of escape. "Cassius..." she warned, voice growing colder. She wasn't in the mood for his games—not when she could still feel herself loosely detached. Calling on the sphere to force that part of herself back into balance might work, but she didn't want to risk using the sphere more than necessary. It was too dangerous an artifact to dispose of at will, and she remembered Gilthan's stories of what had happened to other mortals attempting to use it.

"How many scars do you have?" Cassius asked, a finger moving toward the back of her neck to trace a thin, white line.

"More than I'd like. Now move."

"No." His fingers kept touching her skin, feeling soothing as they brushed back and forth, and his eyes appeared even deeper now, making her want to stare into them. Portia didn't understand why such a desire struck her as she felt him shift closer, his front nearly touching hers. What troubled her most was that she wasn't kneeing him in the crouch by now, for that was what she'd have done under normal circumstances, but right now, she was only considering it. How the hell did his hand move to her waist and she'd never even noticed?

"How many men have gotten this close to you?" Cassius mockingly asked, his smile cruel.

"None that survived," Portia replied with less bite than intended. The sphere...it was so warm, but not uncomfortable, and if she stared into his eyes long enough, was that a spark of orange that she'd seen? This was too much like the alley incident, and she'd vowed to never be so docile with Cassius again, but here she was...

"I once thought that breaking someone like you would be so easy," Cassius mused, mesmerizing Portia as she felt the spirit half of her grow more dominate, causing the edges of her vision to blacken, but she could still see this man's eyes. "I saw woman after woman, and none of them seemed very substantial, but I was wrong."

"I bet that hurts your pride to admit," Portia voiced, sounding distant to her own ears, "We should get back to the others." She didn't lean forward; she was sure that she hadn't when she reflected on this moment hours later, but she still felt her lips touch his. It was the strangest feeling, as if the spirit were being kissed and not her physical body, but that would mean that Mehrunes was kissing her. No, Cassius was here now, but as her vision cleared, it didn't look as if he'd moved either. In fact, he was stepping away from her, and her lips were dry. He hadn't kissed her, and if he had, his face wouldn't be so blank instead of smug. Then how...?

The longer she thought about it, the more she doubted whether she'd been kissed at all, but the tingling sensation remained as her body became whole and balanced once again. The trace memory danced beyond her grasp, but she was sure that the sudden and forceful touching of flesh had felt...demanding, possessive?

The sphere was warm.

Her lips were warm.

"Cassius?"

"They'll be concerned that something happened to us, Sherkyn," he teased. "Don't be slow." Perhaps she _had_ kissed him in her dazed state, but asking him would mean mortification. So she returned to the table and pretended that nothing had transpired between her and Cassius, the dark man being polite and somewhat conversational as she found herself in the most surreal of situations. Horace led the social interaction with talk on current events, and Gilthan made the occasional jest, but the reality was so much starker.

Gilthan and Cassius danced around offending each other, even if the elf smiled throughout their exchanges, and Portia broke the tension by making side comments to both. Certainly Gilthan's behavior had her alert, for although he appeared jovial as always to the others, she knew him better than that. He was serious beneath the ready smile, and when their eyes met, he told her more than words could.

"I need to speak with you as soon as possible," he whispered in her ear at one point. She subtly nodded before feeling a gentle touch across her neck. Was Cassius tracing her scar again? She turned, annoyed that he'd be so blatant in public, but he was sitting with hands on the table, a smirk playing about his mouth. Again, she imagined the kiss, and still could not reach a decision on its depth or reality, but she had larger problems, for the evening was winding down sooner than expected. She estimated that they'd been out of the manor for about an hour and a half, which should have been enough time to Tamil to complete her task, but if it hadn't, there'd be blood to pay for it.

_Keep it going a while longer_, she told herself, but it was futile. Gilthan was anxious to speak with her, and whatever he had to say was undoubtedly important. Tamil had to be finished by now, for she was quick and efficient, probably gloating over some newfound lead at this very moment. Would Cassius and Horace even stay longer? The conversation was dwindling, and Flora was already yawning with the wine heavy in her system. Someone was going to need to escort the poor woman home.

"Horace, don't you have somewhere to be in the morning?" Cassius asked, staring across the table as his friend propped up the mage.

"That I do, Cassius," Horace quickly assented. "Perhaps it would be better to return home and prepare for work. I'm afraid that I have mountains of paperwork for an upcoming trip to Skyrim. The Nords are displeased with a new tax." Portia didn't believe him for a moment, but the story could be true, and Gilthan urgently nudged her beneath the table.

"Yes, let's call it a night," the high elf agreed. "And it was a delightful meal!" Everyone stood, but Gilthan was forced to help Flora, and for good reason. Portia had discussed Horace with the elf, and both knew that it'd be better if one of them took the woman back to the University rather than leaving her with the diplomats. "One foot than the other," Gilthan encouraged with a chuckle. "Next time, we're capping you at three drinks."

"You need to take her home," Portia stated while they walked toward the exit, Horace and Cassius ahead of them. "I'll come see you in the morning." Then, softer and closer to his ear. "I need to report and see if we were successful."

"I understand, but I only need one minute to..."

"Portia," Cassius called over his shoulder, pausing to walk beside her, and casting a quick smile at Gilthan. "Thank you for inviting us. I always enjoy spending time with you." She thanked him as they exited through the enchanted archway and stepped back onto the streets, the night sky overshadowed with thick clouds that did not completely obscure the twinkling stars behind them. The stars were always so brilliant in this land, but not nearly as bright here as they were in the countryside where street lamps were lacking.

"You like the night," Cassius guessed, watching her look at the sky.

"Some things can only be appreciated in the dark," Portia explained.

"How very true." Taking her hand, he kissed it and began talking about the stars above his homeland, and Portia remained to hear him out. With a subtle nod, she told Gilthan to get Flora home, and the elf frowned, mouthing the words, "Be careful", before doing as told. He probably wouldn't have done so had Flora not begun to ramble about butterflies and lions, and he couldn't very well stand there like he was keeping an eye on Cassius.

"Tomorrow, Gilthan," Portia called after him.

"Tomorrow," he grudgingly agreed, and then disappeared down a darkened street, Flora wobbling on his arm. Portia wondered what had upset him so during their meal, but she wouldn't have the opportunity to ask him until later.

_Later._

When darkness crept ever closer, was later ever guaranteed?

*****************

Okay, so another chapter is up, and really fast! So show some love, people. lol.


	27. Chapter 27: Crossing Blades

Chapter 26

Time was running out, and Tamil could hear the clock betraying her as she crept out of her hiding place. Keeping to the shadows, she listened for something—anything—that would give away the men who stalked about the manor upstairs, but silence reigned. She'd waited for an advantage or signal as long as she could, and now, if she didn't move, Horace and Cassius would return, which wouldn't bode well for keeping her dagger clean.

Red eyes narrowed, Tamil kept her back to the wall as the basement's dark outlines became more distinct. One of the men was in the room beyond, or so she sensed, but she couldn't confirm her suspicions with detect life lest they recognize the use of magicka. It was best to do this the old-fashioned way—the way that she'd first been taught: rely on lighting, instinct, and reflexes. Take each step gently, and let hands be eyes in the darkness. It was basic advice, but putting it into practice became a true art once honed, and Tamil considered herself a master.

_Your face._

Tamil reached toward her neck and grabbed the bundle of black cloth that sagged around her collarbone. Unlike other agents, she rarely covered her face, for only people who were about to be permanently silenced inadvertently saw her features while other, surrounding people remained ignorant of her presence. This, however, was not a similar scenario, and hands quickly pulled black cloth over her lower face, the fabric annoying Tamil as she adjusted it. Such a damn hassle, but for all her natural inclination to neatly slit an enemy's throat, this was not Morrowind, and there was no official contract to protect her from retribution—no guild to embrace her upon returning, but rather a strict officer who prided her eyes and ears, not blood on her dagger. That wasn't always the case, but here, tonight, she was only a passing shade and not an executioner.

A hand clasped the metal of the basement door and gently pushed, only opening the pathway wide enough for for slender body to squeeze through. Then she waited, stepping sideways along the wall as she searched for signs of danger or servants, but the servants were long gone, and whoever the two remaining men were, they were also of the shadows, for there was no light in the manor. There was only darkness and the occasional beam of moonlight through a window, and under such cover of night, predators waited.

_If only I'd gotten a clear look at them!_

The failure to do so annoyed Tamil, for if she'd seen the enemy, she'd be in a decent position to report, but right now she had nothing, and while slinking about the house with stalkers present wasn't impossible, she was on a time budget that had been compromised by her brief concealment. It was time to go before her luck ran out, and the muddy footprints in the basement gave her something with which to work.

_Creak. _

Tamil froze, narrow features bleak and alert as she crouched behind a table. Someone was at the top of the stairs, perhaps looking in her direction right now, but she couldn't tell as she watched the dark figure stand, barely visible, against a black backdrop. A hunger to search the upper rooms seized the Blade as she considered the possibility, for she'd never left a mission incomplete, but the figure was growing harder to discern from his background, and the longer she stared upward, the more difficult it became to gauge the man's movements. Eyes returning to her own level, Tamil decided that these phantoms were evidence enough for the time being, but what to do about reaching the front door? Moonlight would be streaming through the cylindrical window in the foyer's ceiling, which would leave her exposed if she chose that route.

_Creak._

This time the sound was louder, and it came from a different direction, sounding so incredibly close that Tamil only remained motionless through years of experience. Her vision traveled toward the noise's source, quickly dismissing a nearby doorway and sweeping along the walls as the realization of the other man's location dawned on her. He definitely wasn't upstairs, and peering around the table, Tamil noticed a dark outline in the far corner, unmoving, but possibly waiting for her to betray an exact location. How hadn't she noticed him there? Well, the bastard could kiss her ass if he thought that he could fool her so easily; although she commended his ability to stay silent for so long. Had they been waiting for her to come upstairs this entire time? Again, the desire to draw blood and get it over with was tempting, but duty came first and foremost.

Tamil's hand snaked over the top of the table above her, lifted a small bowl from its surface, and threw it into the next room, the dish clattering somewhere against a wall. Immediately, the shadow moved, gliding with ease toward the open doorway, and a spark of light gathering at the man's fingertips. It wasn't enough to reveal his identity, but Tamil caught sight of abnormally pale skin that was almost sickly in appearance.

_Now_, she thought, using her bought time to cross the room and enter another where she was alone. Hands quietly unlatched a window, and she hauled herself over and out of the house, her feet dropping onto the street outside. Window shut, freedom gained, and some dirt to share with Arelius—Tamil was pleased that the night wasn't a complete waste, but she wasn't clear of the fire yet. She ran across the street to hide in darker corners, and scanned the area, but apparently her escape had gone unnoticed, for the manor remained still. Now she could wander about the city to lose any possible pursuers.

_And not a moment too soon_, she noted. Cassius was approaching the house now, but without Horace. Where was the other man? Tamil waited until the lone diplomat was inside, her mind inclined to simply refer to him as 'the bastard' since his name was false, and then her fleet boots were walking along the edge of the street. She didn't feel the need to cast another spell as she went her way, but for a second, she could have sworn that she heard something smack the pavement behind her. No, there was nothing there, but she moved faster in caution, her instincts having kept her a live a long time, and a lone pair of eyes watching her from beneath a black hood.

***************

What an interesting development.

Ruined Cloak allowed the body slung over his shoulders to drop to the ground as he braced a hand against the wall and pulled himself further into the light of the streets. His fingers dug into the mortar between stones, causing loose chunks to fall free as his blank face barely altered but for the hardening of his gaze. That dark hair falling sideways over a purple face...his permanently damaged hand twitched with its frayed nerves as he his breath stirred the edge of his cowl.

Yes, it was her, down to the expert grace of her step in the night, and he would follow her. Cassius was home, so the captive could be left with him, and that freed Ruined Cloak to pursue this mysterious dunmer with the facial tattoos of a killer. Oh yes, he remembered the three dots beneath her left eye, the alignment familiar to someone who'd once destroyed an entire guildhall for taking contracts against the Mythic Dawn. The symbol had appeared there, and it meant death to those who understood its importance: stealth, speed, solace.

The damage that he'd suffered could be rectified in a matter of seconds, and Ruined Cloak was faster than the elf. The distance between them shortened as his robes billowed behind him, body remaining completely concealed but for a brief glimpse of golden eyes as he jumped over a squat wall that encircled a dragon statue. There he crouched, vision unrestricted by stone barriers as his prey paused to look for him. She was good, if she had already detected him, and even wiser if she had the foresight to watch her back on a seemingly peaceful night.

What had she been doing outside of his master's home? The ship had been no accident, and neither was this, but he had to be careful with this meddlesome elf. She was a natural killer, like himself, and so the night embraced her with its cool touch. Perhaps she was a kindred spirit, and for that, his blade would be honored to take her life. Unbelievers were all the same, but a few might be worth special attention, and his master would be pleased with the woman's death. Then the elf was moving again, and Ruined Cloak checked the inside of his heavy robes for a glass vial to collect her sweet essence. His lord would appreciate the power contained in the blood of someone so tainted by death and survival, for such sacrifices had always been well received at his shrines.

Now the nameless woman was entering a small side street, which provided the perfect opportunity for murder. Blade unsheathed, and appetite for death whetted, Ruined Cloak abandoned cover for a direct assault on the woman's back. She didn't turn as his knife raised, poisoned edge glistening green in the starlight, and its deadly point aimed directly at the base of her neck, where it would kill or paralyze her.

**************

It was the barely audible sound of rustling cloth that made Tamil turn, her eyes widening as she caught the glint of green above her head.

_Shit!_

She was in no position to block the attack, and so she jumped backward, the blade cutting air centimeters from her face, and giving her a rude shock. The curve of the dagger's handle as it swept by her was familiar, and coupled with the black outfit and silent approach of this opponent, Tamil found her gut tingling with the memory of poison. The pain had passed, but it left one pissed off dunmer in its wake.

"Fetcher!" she cursed, ducking under an overhead swing as she lashed out with her own knife, but the man's defense was as impeccable as his assault, and he pulled away so that the knife only sliced through the front of his fluttering robes. His body was heavily wrapped, but Tamil didn't think that he wore armor under the clothing given his slight frame, meaning that he was as vulnerable as herself, and that meant that she only needed to best him in speed. Anywhere she struck could disable him if the wound were deep enough, and after what he'd done to her, she intended to pay him back tenfold.

_How the hell did the blighted bastard find me?_

Two knives collided and loudly glanced off of one another as the man attempted to force her weapon aside and reverse his blade's direction for a swipe at her throat. Again, death's fingers brushed across Tamil's skin as she barely dodged, her mind warning that she needed to quickly dispatch this man before someone arrived and got himself killed. One guard already lay beneath the earth, and another wasn't going to join him.

Tamil glared as she used one hand to swat aside an attack, the other to drive her dagger toward the man's neck, but suddenly he had two weapons, and the second dagger was much longer—one of those slender blades favored by wood elves, and Tamil lifted a leg to kick the cloaked figure in the chest, her boot making contact with his hard body. The man didn't make a sound as he stumbled backward, the hood somehow remaining in place despite the conflict, and preventing Tamil from understanding what she faced. Nothing seemed to phase this combatant, not even her follow-up charge, her blade seeking blood and advantage over his recoiling form.

Feet across stone, eyes hardened for the kill, she was sure that she could strike before he recovered from the kick, but he moved far too quickly for a normal person as she neared her target. A bright light appeared in his hand, and realizing what it was as the sound of crackling sparks overcame her, Tamil desperately redirected her path. Her speed and momentum couldn't be stopped so abruptly, but she managed to jump to the side, body painfully connecting with a hard, stone wall as fire erupted beside her. The heat fanned across her face as the attack sped by and illuminated the street in a flash and roar of flames.

A long shadow stretched behind her attacker, his robes whipping about behind his outstretched hand, and the light brightly reflecting off a pair of golden eyes. What in the name of Oblivion was that? Golden eyes? She'd never seen golden eyes, and now she had the additional problem of a nearby house's shutters catching on fire. Already people were shouting and calling for guards, the heavy footsteps of metal feet approaching as Tamil considered being caught in such a scene.

In a desperate attempt to end this before help arrived, she threw her dagger, the ebony blade flying through the air as the dark figure spun in retreat.

"Fetcher!" she angrily repeated as her weapon bounced harmlessly off of the opposite building, enemy fleeing into the night like a gust of smoke. That left a very frustrated dark elf with the heat of a spreading fire at her back as she skirted around arriving guards. She went unnoticed in the commotion, and watched as civilians formed a human chain from a nearby water outlet to the fire, buckets passing down the row in rapid succession. Soon the fire would be reduced to a smoldering pile of ashes, and even sooner if a mage happened to help.

"Next time he won't be so lucky," Tamil grumbled, retrieving her weapon and leaving before anyone connected her to the incident. Was it coincidence that she'd been stalked by her nemesis directly after leaving Horace's home? Her dark skin helped to conceal her as she continued on her way, more convinced than ever that Arelius couldn't wait to broaden her directives.

Mud in the basement.

With a small, savage smile, Tamil counted her blessings. Sometimes the most common things could be the nail in the coffin.

******************

Portia sat on a chair beside her bed and perused the daedric text before her, eyes drooping as she attempted to concentrate. She was tired, but couldn't possibly sleep before speaking with either Tamil or Arelius to assure that the mission had gown as planned. She wanted to know where Cassius stood—badly, and the more she remembered the feel of lips against hers, the more concerned she became. If he was the enemy, why would he kiss her, and why hadn't she done something about it? She was protective of her body, and for someone so subliminally threatening to touch her with such boldness without receiving even a slap in return...why hadn't she stopped him?

Portia recalled how he'd once looked at her, the lidded stare making her nervous, and then tonight, when he'd practically been on top of her, talking about her scars like they were something fascinating and attractive—not an unrefined history of pain as she saw them—she'd wanted to let him continue touching her neck, his appreciation unlike anything she'd ever encountered. Cassius was an unusual man to be sure, yet she'd liked the way that he preferred her conversation at the table, and how he'd sarcastically commented on Flora's makeup while eating. She'd perfectly agreed with his sharp criticism of women who overly colored themselves, and his chuckle had been so deep and steady.

_"Imagine the brightest whites and blues sparkling behind a curtain of red silk."_

Portia glanced outside and considered the night sky as he'd suggested, and she wondered what could cause such a sky since the man could hail from anywhere with his false identity. Ash storms made the sky reddish, or so she'd heard, and there were rumors of stranger things, such as the Bloodmoon. What did a crimson sky with stars look like? For a moment, the fiery sky of the Deadlands came to mind, but she'd never seen stars there, only crackling ripples of red on darker red, and she'd only noticed it once when she'd found Mehrunes observing his domain.

Returning to her studies, Portia noted that Sherkyn was mentioned on the page before her, but the book only speculated over what the term meant and how female dremora behaved.

"As fearsome and deadly as their male counterparts, females can and do hold equal rank in any of the clans, and assuming that the classes operate somewhat like mortal ones, mating would be restricted to class. This seems likely according to the account of Filius Caius, who was known for summoning and attempting to coerce information from dremora and daedra in exchange for their freedom." Portia recalled the Imperial name from somewhere else, and it seemed to her that the man had eventually been killed by one of the said daedra when he'd tried to teach a clanfear to balance a ball on its nose.

"A male churl is reputed to have said that females were warriors but spent more time training the newly born, caring for the revived, and guarding forts rather than hunting and patrolling as the males do. What he meant exactly by 'the revived' is unclear, but he did mention that mates are chosen by rank, are often fought over, and require males to prove themselves before chosen or forced submission. Forced submission is apparently an acceptable means of claiming a female."

"How interesting," Portia sighed, closing the book and remembering another passage that had used Sherkyn. Apparently the term only applied in the Valkynaz ranks, which made Cassius's compliment more elevated than she'd originally realized. Had she seen a single female in Oblivion? No, not that she'd recalled, which made her wonder where exactly females stayed in Oblivion. Perhaps Cassius would know something about it.

_Click._

Portia automatically reached for her sword and drew it as she warily eyed the closest window. Something had moved outside, and assuming the worst, she neared the softly swaying curtains as the night air freely encircled her.

"You can put the sword away," Tamil's voice whispered, causing Portia to lose her defensive stance. Within seconds, the elf had swung into the room with her disheveled clothing and a dagger in hand.

"You seem to prefer windows to doors," Portia commented with a relieved smile as she set her sheathed sword at the foot of the bed. "I'm glad that you're still in one piece, but what happened to your hair?"

"Hmmm?" Tamil moved toward a hanging mirror and frowned, fingers brushing over the tips of her bangs, which were scorched. "I ran into a problem," the elf explained.

"At the manor?"

"Outside the manor, although I can't be sure that it wasn't just lousy luck on my part. Damn, fetching mongrel..." Turning away from the mirror, Tamil tucked her dagger into her belt and cautiously looked out the window. "I was attacked by same person who poisoned me."

"The very same?" Portia questioned, surprised.

"I'd know the bastard anywhere," Tamil snorted. "And I didn't even land a cut on him. Is Arelius in? I'm sorry to burst through your window like that, but I didn't want anyone to see me coming into the house."

"It's fine," Portia answered, troubled by the news. "And I'm also waiting for Arelius. He hasn't arrived back yet. What about the manor? Did you find anything?"

"Oh, I found something," Tamil smiled. "But we've known that Horace and Cassius weren't innocent from the start, so that's no surprise. Perhaps these men even know where Mehrunes is. Vivic is smiling upon us." _Maybe_, Portia darkly countered. The prospect of encountering Mehrunes or being attentively sought by one of his personal assistants was not comforting.


	28. Chapter 28: An Act of Heroism

Chapter 27: An Act of Heroism

Groggy eyes opened painfully to the darkness, and Gilthan's sensitive, elfin nose detected the faint scent of blood. It wasn't his alone, and it wasn't fresh, the old, stale smell invading his senses until he was sure that a metallic taste lingered on his tongue. His first reaction was to gag, and then he peered into the surrounding gloom as his head spun with the pain of Ruined Cloak's twisted magic. It was dark magic—the kind that left people screaming and writhing, and if Gilthan had been any weaker, he would have already given them exactly what they wanted—what Cassius demanded: the chaos sphere's location and information on Portia.

Gilthan gritted his teeth and ran a dry tongue over his gums, tasting blood and realizing that it wasn't his imagination, but real, and he was indeed tied to a chair in a basement. His jaw ached from a large bruise that blossomed on the left side of his face, and the dull pain radiated across sore muscles as Gilthan recalled a fist connecting with his face. Apparently Cassius wasn't content in allowing his servant to do all the dirty work, and it made Gilthan despise the man even more. _No, he's not a man_, the elf reminded himself. The arrogant being was none other than Mehrunes Dagon, prince of destruction, as he'd suspected, and for that very reason, Gilthan held little hope of leaving this room alive.

_Portia. _

His eyes soften into a sad droop as he considered the woman's predicament and what he'd failed to tell her. Mehrunes was getting closer to her as the days passed, and the prince's interest was taking on a nature that Gilthan loathed to witness. Damn that daedra for making innocents suffer, and damn him even more for targeting Portia. The thought of what would happen to the goodhearted woman if she remained ignorant plagued Gilthan's tired mind, his shoulders slouching further with acknowledge of his idiocy in departing from her the previous night. There had to be a way to reach her, even if he never left this prison.

_Look what's happened to you, dear Gilthan_, he inwardly sighed. _Your father was right: you're going to die young because of rashness_. After a pause in which he futilely attempted to wiggle out of his bindings, Gilthan decided that he could perhaps accept vindicating his father's word, for how many people could claim to have died helping thwart a daedric prince's will? Such a distinction had a ring to it that fit Gilthan's love of flair, but there was still the pain in his body, and it nauseated him as the ropes securing his hands dug into chafed wrists to absorb more of his blood. Rough fibers against tender flesh, he wanted to empty his stomach, his fresh return from unconsciousness still affecting him, and the feel of soiled pants clinging to his legs degrading. Death would have been more pleasant than suffering another round of questioning, and even managing to annoy his captors couldn't entirely lift Gilthan's spirits from the gutter as his head lulled to the side.

A dark room without laughter or light or friends...it was a terrible way to end, and as the trapdoor above him flew open, he wished that he could see the sun one more time, even just once. He was young with a gloriously free life, and to see it diminished...Gilthan cut the mournful thought short as he listened to footsteps descending a ladder. Perhaps it was better to die doing something of importance, and he knew that he had to believe that if he was going to survive this. He'd fluttered from one activity to the next throughout his entire life, helping the occasional wayward person in the university, or playing pranks to alleviate boredom and stress, even abandoning his homeland because he didn't want the pressure of his parents' expectations.

_When was the last time you took responsibility for something so vital?_ He couldn't remember, and staring at the shifty shadows of the vacant room around him, he realized that for the first time since leaving home, his humor failed him, and he didn't care. There were always more important matters, like protecting someone, and although Gilthan openly accepted the idea, he couldn't help but feel that it sounded a little forced given his circumstances. But he _could_ do this, and maybe even salvage one of his trademark smiles in the process. _But no one will ever know. No, she'll know; Arelius will know_. Gilthan tried to smile, but the attempt failed when the movement tore open a cut on his chin, blood trickling down his neck to stain a collar already ruined with yesterday's inflictions.

Words of enchantment began flowing from his mouth, the effort sucking dry what little magicka remained in his system, Ruined Cloak having drained his reserves. There was just enough to do this—just enough to make his sacrifice worthwhile. A faint glow of light erupted in his palm, and then he slid a ring free from his index finger. He didn't need to see the ring to know that it displayed his family's insignia, and now it was enchanted to find Portia with his message. _Yes, Gilthan, you've done well, you stupid, silly elf_. _The game had to end eventually. Be glad that it's not for nothing like most of your life has been. _

"He's still not breaking, my lord," a hated voice sounded overhead.

"We'll see about that."

"Yes we shall," Gilthan sarcastically agreed as his captors approached. His body was already tense in dreadful anticipation, but he still winked at Mehrunes Dagon, just to piss the man off.

*************

"Do you know where he is?" Portia asked, concerned as Flora yawned and held a compress to her aching head. The woman shook her head through her hangover, and Portia had the urge to grab the compress and throw it aside. This was no time for perfunctory answers and disinterest. Gilthan needed to see her, and Portia knew that it was important.

"I'm not sure where he went last night," Flora stated. "Damn, but this headache is killing me."

"But didn't he bring you home?" Portia pressed, growing more annoyed by the second.

"No," Flora said, sounding confused. "I thought that he was, but then Horace brought me home. Gilthan needed to do something..." her voice trailed off. "Yes, he needed to do something, and it was decided that Horace would bring me home. I haven't seen either of them since then, but you know how Gilthan is. The boss is always sending him on errands, and he can't sit still for five minutes. I'm sure that he'll be around later."

"Please tell him that I'm looking for him," Portia said, less than convinced by the circumstances, but Gilthan did tend to disappear on various tasks, and sometimes he was merely out harassing some young mage. Still, the seriousness of his mood last night and his parting reluctance were impossible to forget. He hadn't wanted to leave her with Cassius, but she'd insisted, and now she wondered if that hadn't been a mistake. She imagined the elf's bright, playful face and worried about him for reasons that she didn't have time to pinpoint. She tried to calm herself, for after all, there was no evidence of foul play yet, and Gilthan was skilled and knowledgeable despite his behavior.

_He's okay_, she assured herself.

"I'll come by after work," she told Flora. "He can find me at the palace if he's not busy before then."

"I'll pass the word along," Flora promised, and Portia stepped away into the morning sunlight. If something had happened to Gilthan because of her...The thought was almost unbearable as she stiffly approached the palace, its gleaming walls grating in their misleading beauty. It was not a day for cheer, and until Portia found out what had been troubling Gilthan, there would be no room for ease. She decided that she could definitely use one of his smiles right about now, but all she got was a mild and common greeting from one of the palace guards as he opened a door for her. Some compensation.

****************

"You're very resistant, Altmer," Mehrunes commented, watching with appreciation as the elf coughed blood onto the floor and glared at Ruined Cloak. He hadn't known that high elves could show such backbone, but here it was, and he would never have expected it from a loose-mouthed dandy like Gilthan.

"I won't give you anything," Gilthan firmly stated. "Not the chaos sphere, not Portia," and his words made Mehrunes chuckle.

"She's already mine," the prince shrugged. "Even if you had succeeded in telling her about me, she still wouldn't escape."

"Arrogance is a nasty vice," Gilthan replied, and with such ease that it made Mehrunes strike the elf across the face. The prince did not take attitude from anyone very well, least of all from a prisoner, and he watched with a sneer as the elf sputtered on his own fluids and let his head hang, breathing heavy.

"My lord?" Ruined Cloak questioned.

"Permission granted." Gilthan screamed when the spell hit him, but the room was silenced, so no one could hear his anguish. His fingernails curled into his palms until they broke the skin, and his clothing was already drenched with a mixture of sweat and blood. Still, he stubbornly lifted his head and forced his jaw shut as Ruined Cloak retracted the spell, and Mehrunes watched as Gilthan's weak form denied the captive a dignified stance and sunk into a pained slouch.

"He can't take much more or he'll die," Ruined Cloak cautioned, but without concern.

"Then finish it," Gilthan suggested, sounding more desperate than intended. Eyes squeezed shut, his mouth hung open, and his heart beat oddly with convulsions of pain and lingering magicka. The call for execution was a plea with which Mehrunes was familiar, but it did not make him smile as he observed the telltale signs of defeat. Instead, he considered the elf's loyalty to Portia and almost admired the tenacity, but he wanted this information, and he would have it.

"You'd like us to finish," the daedra darkly intoned. "But we won't—not until you tell us where Portia has the sphere." Gilthan glanced up into dark eyes and flinched, Mehrunes smiling coldly as he slightly bent to get a closer look at the elf's haggard expression, once perfect white-blond hair obscuring the man's face. "It's tempting to speak and end this, isn't it?" Mehrunes taunted. "Only a handful of words, and the pain can be stopped. Resisting won't get you anywhere in the end, because no one's here to see your valiant death. No one's ever going to know that you sold out your friend."

"_I _will," Gilthan croaked, but his voice wavered.

"You don't sound very confident," Mehrunes noted, feeling his enemy's resolve cracking. The elf's head drooped, and the prince waited to hear the confession. Any moment now...

"You'll _never_ have her," the elf suddenly spoke, voice stern. "And when she finds out who you really are, you'll never get close enough to touch her again, prince of failure." Black eyes flashed with anger as Mehrunes growled, hand reaching out and gripping Gilthan's throat until the elf was fighting for air.

"How dare you!" he roared. "Disrespectful mortals! That's all anyone on this plane is, but you're all going to eat your words and pride when this is finished." He almost crushed Gilthan's throat before releasing the elf and stepping back to compose himself, not wanting to lose restraint over a mortal's foolish show of bravado. He would _not_ allow the elf to feel any sense of empowerment.

"She'll be revolted that you ever touched her," Gilthan stubbornly continued, sputtering and wheezing in recovery, and the words rubbing against Mehrunes' nerves. "And as for me...you can't have me either." He winked. The damn elf actually winked. "She'll keep the sphere from you, prince, and you'll be sent back to Oblivion to play pattycake with dremora or whatever you do in your free time."

"Kill him," Mehrunes ordered, feeling his patience wearing thin. Gilthan gave a short, forced bark of laughter as Ruined Cloak raised a hand and began chanting.

"Who'd have thought," the elf commented to no one in particular. "Gilthan the hero."

"Heroes don't die in gutters, elf," Mehrunes snorted.

"Oh, some of them do," the elf choked on blood, body beginning to burn from the inside out as a spell ate through his organs. "In fact...I think that...most of them must...since we...never read about them...Ahhhhh!" The scream rent the air as he thrashed so violently that his chair toppled, his head hitting the floor with a sickening thud as Gilthan felt his life breaking apart in the heat of a thousand tiny flames. Finally the body stopped moving, laying limp as Ruined Cloak cut free the ties that bound the elf so that his assistants could remove the body. The elf merely lay sprawled on his back, eyes closed, and chest no longer rising and falling to the visible eye.

"A remarkably strong elf," Ruined Cloak commented.

"Yes," Mehrunes agreed. "But he failed." The prince's lips stretched into a wicked grin as he stared down at the ruined life before him. "What did he say? 'She'll never let us have the sphere?' Poor, brave elf. He told me exactly what I wanted to confirm, and he never even realized it." The prince turned to leave, mind honed with intent as lingering anger and the itch to act propelled him forward. "I'll be back. Dispose of the body."

"May I ask where you are going, my lord?"

"She has it, and if that means on her, I'm going to find out for once and for all." There was no stopping the prince when he was set on doing something, and so Ruined Cloak merely trailed behind his master as the prince stormed out. As a servant, he needed to find Horace and discuss what could be done about their work. Hopefully their lord didn't do anything too rash while his spirits were roused, but Ruined Cloak wouldn't count on it.

Meanwhile, in the basement, Gilthan's head lulled to the side. His pulse barely prolonged his life as his eyes weakling stared across the floor, his vision quickly failing him. He wouldn't last much longer, and he knew it, but until then, he wanted to be sure that...

A gleam of silver—yes, there! He managed to smile one last time as his eyes fell on the loose ring laying some inches away, his family crest staring him right in the face. Portia would find it because nothing else _could_ happen, and that provided him with a sense of solace as his eyelids drooped ever lower, or maybe they weren't drooping and his ability to see was simply waning. He couldn't be sure, and as a fog began to settle over his mind, he wondered how many heroes had actually died in gutters, and whether or not he might count himself as one of them.

_The pain's finally gone, _he vaguely realized.

_Please be careful, Portia._

_Gilthan the hero. _

Gilthan Lorenlee died wearing one of his best smiles.


	29. Chapter 29: Wrapped in Steam

Chapter 28: Wrapped in Steam

Portia pulled her hair free from the bun behind her head, and allowed the brown folds to fall across her shoulders. Her hair had grown a bit longer, now reaching the tips of her breasts as she prepared for a bath to rinse away the day's filth. It was mid-afternoon, and the students had already left, leaving the grounds mostly vacant and private as her muscles awaited the warmth of fresh water.

There were two baths connected to the sparring yards—one for men, and one for women—and being one of the few women to come here, she had the pleasure of the room to herself as she stepped through a pillared archway and into a swath of steam. There was a natural hot spring beneath the marble that she now walked across, and the stones were warm with its caress, the room so steamy that its edges were lost to Portia. She paused by the edge of the square pool before her, toes tickled by water as she stared at a circular window cut high into the domed ceiling. Its light cut through the steam in visible beams, and the scent of lavender drifted beneath her nose, beckoning her. Thank the gods for these few, relaxing moments.

*******************

She would keep the sphere from him?

Mehrunes scoffed as he crossed the training yard, sword at his waist. The lessons were done for the day, but the teacher was here, for he could sense her. The shedding of fresh blood had his aggression heightened, and the elf's dying mockery of his power and ability didn't help the matter. He could and would have gladly killed someone foolish enough to fight him at this moment, and for that reason, it was fortunate that Portia's class was not ongoing. To challenge her now...the prince was not always the most controlled of people, and when he had a hunger for confrontation, battle did not always stop when the other opponent was down.

Mehrunes entered a hallway and felt Portia's presence more acutely than before, the sensation conjuring a whisper of thought that denied his bloodlust. Yes, he could kill her now, but yet again, he decided against it. The assessment of his more cautious side took precedence with an ease that astounded him, demanding that bloodshed be contained, and when one lived for eternity, taking time to complete a task was tolerable for the most part. Death was an art at which the prince excelled, but there were other ways to destroy a person that took much longer and more exacting hits.

His blood raced as he approached an entryway obscured by steam. She was hidden behind that veil, and since Mehrunes very much wished to gradually make his presence known, he was forced to control his emotions. Cooling himself came quite naturally under such circumstances, for he'd already killed one enemy today, and the sight of a fallen foe had satiated the more primal parts of his personality. There was also the calm lull of the bathing room as he entered its warmth, steam wrapping around him as he set his cloak and sword aside, and the knowledge that he would be alone with Portia quite pleasing.

She had a frost atronach's chances in the Deadlands of escaping him, and never had he been more sure of that as Portia came into view. The elf who'd seemed to be in her favor was removed and punished for his transgressions, and never again would those golden hands touch this woman who now stood with her back to him, torso wrapped in a thin, white towel. Mehrunes allowed his eyes to roam over her figure as he stood at a distance, the white layer of steam making Portia look as if she stood alone in the center of a cloud, floating in nothingness. Dark eyes glistened with fascination and lust as the towel slid down hips and legs, pooling at the woman's feet and exposing her bare skin to his blatant and appreciative stare.

Mehrunes wanted to see her front, where he would gain a better view of the scar on her hip (among other things), and with desire mounting, the prince marveled at how easily this woman invoked emotion in him, whether it be anger, annoyance, frustration, lust, relaxation, or amusement. He wasn't sure which was more dominant as he had the urge to reach out and touch that skin, the attraction amplified by memories of the previous night when he'd pressed lips to hers in an impulsive claim that had not be warded off.

One of Portia's legs lifted and slid into the water, her body moving forward into the spring as arms fanned out to gently swirl the water's surface. Mehrunes would take the opportunity to find and search her clothing, but between his drive to find the sphere, he kept glancing at her, her head tilted backward to rest on the edge of the pool as steam concealed most of her body. He was content to watch for the time being, somehow detecting her inner peace and sharing in it. Was it the connection between them? He thought so, and he wouldn't question it for now. He was too busy feeling the rush of blood in his ears as he wished to outright claim what he wanted as he usually did, but he couldn't here, which was both frustrating and enticing.

Portia couldn't be controlled or seduced so easily, and he wouldn't want that. Fresh blood, naked flesh, and a step closer to reclaiming his property...Today was a good day, and he was going to make it last, but how long could he stand and watch before his restraint dwindled? He had questions; Portia had answers, and her current, vulnerable state was wearing down his calm reserve with each movement of her body.

**************

The water felt amazing as Portia dunked her entire body beneath its surface, hands pushing hair back over her head, and a slow, easy smile playing across her lips. Slick tresses clung to her neck as she returned to the air, waterline resting beneath her breasts as she reveled in the moment. She needed to come here more often and indulge in these simple comforts, but she was almost always rushing off to complete another task when classes ended.

_Nothing can be this peaceful_, she thought, but something dark stirred on the edge of her calm. It was restless and relaxed by turns, first behaving like a caged lion, and then withdrawing. The intrusion would have made anyone feel conspicuous, and so Portia rubbed a bar of purple soap over her arms as she scanned the room, even knowing that she wouldn't see anything. The spirit attached to hers could only be Mehrunes, who wasn't here, but he still felt close, and what _was_ he doing? It was unlike him to express conflicting vibes, for his emotions were usually focused and overbearingly powerful, but now Portia almost felt as if he was drifting between solace and strife, and there was something else—something hot and demanding that would have made her squirm if she hadn't adapted to his encroachments.

She splashed water over her arms to rinse away residue soap and spun in a circle merely to feel the water swirl around her. It glided across her torso, and she sighed in contentment, willing herself to ignore Mehrunes. This felt so nice. She could stay forever if she didn't...

Portia froze, no words finding their way to her mouth as she stared upward at a figure standing at the edge of the pool. Eyes traveled up boots, light pants, and a red tunic that was unlaced at the neck in the room's heat, and Portia's throat constricted as memories of a fleeting kiss assaulted her. Then she met the man's eyes with their intent focus.

"Cassius," she breathed, shocked to find him here, and annoyance growing at this breach of privacy. Yet she did not shrink into the water as she might have, for under that gaze, she stood taller, lifting her bare breasts from the water to show that she would not whither under his scrutiny. If he would be bold, so would she, and with defiant bewilderment, she continued sliding her hands through the water as she collected herself. No one had ever seen her like this before.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Appreciating the view," Cassius smartly replied.

"You don't have permission to be here," Portia continued, avoiding his smoldering gaze with the way that its blatant desire disconcerted her. _You could be more forceful_, her mind whispered, but as during the kiss, she found herself slow to aggressively reject what Cassius was expressing. There was a depth of honest and raw energy to the man that gave his words a potency that so many flowery flirtations lacked.

"I don't ask for permission," Cassius told her.

"I don't care. You should leave."

"Do you want me to?" he challenged. "Or would you rather know why I've come?" Portia watched him carefully as he began meandering around the edge of the pool, her body slowly turning to keep him in sight as he folded hands behind his back and continued to stare. She sensed danger, and every fiber of her being told her to stay away from him, even as she wondered what he would do if she exited the pool.

"Tell me why you're here," she roughly ordered, causing him to chuckle.

"You're beginning to sound like me," he noted. "You're always so much more polite around others, but you and I don't like playing by the rules, and we don't have to when it's just us. But to answer your question, I came looking for you, and when I realized that you were here, I couldn't resist." His movements reminded her of a pacing animal as Portia felt his vision burn across her chest as she stretched. She had the impulse to cover herself, but she was the one at a disadvantage here, for he had her trapped, which meant that faking confidence had never been so vital. She needed to maintain some semblance of control or she was sure that he'd exploit an opening.

"So do you like what you see, Cassius?" she taunted, raising arms above her head to wring out her hair.

"I've always liked what I've seen in you," the man replied after a moment's hesitation.

"Then you've gotten your view and may leave," Portia suggested.

"No, I don't think so," Cassius smirked. "And you can't make me do anything, Sherkyn. Would you dare to get out of that water with me standing here? I wonder if you're as bold as you act."

"Don't think that I won't do it," Portia fumed. "Perhaps I cross lines, as you've said, but you push me to it, and in all honesty, I think that you like seeing me accept the challenge, Cassius. You've been trying to goad me into confrontations since we first met." They stared at one another, and the hidden amusement on Cassius's face told Portia that he couldn't deny her assertions. "Horace doesn't tell you what to do," she continued. "I doubt that anyone does, but I won't bullshit and cater to your moods, so you can stop playing your games." Cassius stopped walking, his face contorted into a rare stare that was intense enough to match his former leer, but of an entirely different nature. He was staring at her like she was some kind of rare gem, and his serious face was only altered by a thin half-smile.

"I wouldn't expect less from you," he stated. "You've always tackled whatever I've thrown in your face, and yes, I like conflict. If you had any idea..." He smiled and shook his head. "Ah, woman, you dive in over your head and then deal with the consequences as they come. It's not something that people usually survive..."

"And what happens if I don't want to be your entertainment?" Portia questioned. "If I stop playing your game?"

"Then you'll lose faster than you already would," Cassius said, frowning and sounding displeased. "But you won't stop fighting, Sherkyn, and you don't want to disappoint me." And then he waited for her to make the next move, Portia watching him for a few seconds to collect her willpower. She didn't need to do this. _You can stop playing his game and set a new precedent right now. Take control of this_, but she knew that she couldn't by trying to out wait his presence. No, this had to be done in a different way, and with her pulse picking up pace, she dared to turn her back on him, and began pushing through the water until her hands met a stone rim.

She pulled herself from the pool with water glistening across her slick body, every inch of her exposed to the mocking man whom she could no longer see. She was nervous and uncomfortable, but she managed to maintain a steady pace as she moved toward her towel, a hand extending to snatch it from the floor when fingers intercepted her course. Breath caught in her throat as Cassius grabbed the towel and pulled it from her, the man standing there before her with it in his hands as she straightened.

"That's mine," she needlessly stated, the man shooting her a taunting grin.

"Of course it is," he agreed. "But allow me to do the honors." Portia could barely think straight as he stepped closer and began drying one of her arms, the towel working its ways over her shoulders and then down to her breasts, the fleshy skin easily moving beneath his pressing ministrations, and Portia staunchly refusing to flinch. Let him try to win embarrassment or surrender from her, for he would have neither, but she also knew that she couldn't allow this to continue. Accepting his challenge was one thing, but allowing him to dry a pathway down toward her...

"This scar," Cassius mused, face serious as he eyed the symbol carved into her hip. "It's the seal of the Deadlands—the symbol of Prince Dagon's power." He did not touch it with the towel, but merely held the cloth near it as he examined the wound with uncanny captivation.

"Does it mean anything, or is it only a seal?" Portia asked, wanting to know, for the curving lines were on her—part of her—and they would never vanish.

"It is an old symbol reserved for the prince's use alone," Cassius murmured, still fixated. "Daedric has changed over the centuries, and some words from the beginning have fallen out of disuse, but this one never will." He reached out his other hand to touch it, but Portia grabbed his wrist to stop the movement. "Does it repulse you?" Cassius asked, meeting her eyes. "To have such a scar?"

"No," Portia firmly answered. "It still hurts, but it's my burden to wear, and I'll do so." _No more running from what troubles you_, she reminded herself, feeling it more than ever as Cassius refused to leave her. Being able to withstand his questioning made her feel stronger, even braver, for no one else would dare ask these questions or get close enough to even form them. It seemed a privilege reserved for him, since he alone was bold enough to force his way through her comfort zone. In some ways, his actions were reminiscent of Arelius, yet so very different since Cassius pried into areas that her boss would never touch.

"This is how Mehrunes Dagon hurt you?" the man guessed.

"To shame me," Portia humorlessly smiled. "To break me, but I've collected my life."

"A badge of strength then," Cassius approvingly pondered, rolling the idea slowly off of his tongue while the towel again pressed to her flesh, right above her navel so that the hanging edges of cloth grazed her thighs. She'd never been so exposed to a man before, and she shouldn't...her fingers slid from his wrist as he retracted the hand traveling toward her scar, and he closed his eyes. He was peaceful again, but Portia couldn't ruin her chance to do what she'd almost forgotten in conversation: turn the tables.

"Enough," she firmly told him while forcefully ripping the towel from his relaxed grip. "I'm not going to stand here naked so that you can appreciate my battlefield of a body." Cassius's eyes flew open at that, the heat back in them as Portia began wrapping the towel around herself. She could feel his stare, and it seemed to slip inside of her, passing her defenses to distract and taunt her in ways that should not have been possible.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I do not take orders?" Cassius darkly reminded her, frowning before something wicked seemed to occur to him. He leaned closer, his tunic dropping forward so that Portia could see the toned chest that lay beneath, sparse dark hair trailing down the center in a thin line. "But the largest of your scars—the one that he gave you...do you realize that the symbol denotes ownership? Have you ever wondered why a daedric prince would claim you?" Portia saw red in that instant, his words worming inside of her skull and rekindling memories and words spoken so long ago and yet still riveting in their intensity.

"He _does not_ own me," she ground out. "No one does." Cassius chuckled, and before she realized what she was doing, Portia reached out and hit him hard across the face, his dark hair whipping through the air as his head snapped sideways. There was a snarl, a fierce pressure exerted on her waist, and when she opened her eyes, his hand was on the scar, but the pressure was lifting, and the feel of his palms against tough ridges of skin felt strangely fitting, or so the warmth inside of her professed. Was it the sphere? The connection was opening, causing Portia to sink deeper into chaos, and her mind vehemently refuting Cassius's words.

_No one owns me!_ The phrase triggered a chain reaction of energy throughout her body, and its direction was uncontrolled as she let the surge slip from her grasp, Portia frightened by its intensity and the way that Cassius stood blankly before her, quiet and sober as if in concentration. _Ah mortal, it's in every pore of your body._ Mehrunes? His voice was inside her head, and she could smell the spice and violence of his persona.

"Someone will own you, Portia," Cassius stated, oddly calm considering the slap, and she snapped back to reality. "Hardly anyone remains whole and independent for a lifetime, but when the time comes, will you give yourself away, or will you fight until the bitter end? Goodbye, Sherkyn, and well played." He stepped back into the steam and exited the room without a further word, leaving Portia to stand with one hand clutched to her chest, keeping the towel in place. Goblin's gall, hos had she summoned that much energy? She hurried to dress, the hip scar more prominent in her mind than before as she recalled how Cassius had looked on it as if it were beautiful. _He understood why you no longer regret the pain_, she realized, feeling as if the man knew her better than anyone else. Pants were pulled up and buckled, and a tunic tucked into place, but still she could not shake the feel of him drying her body out of her mind, and what's more, part of her had wanted him to continue.

*********

"I'm sure that I'm not the only one who felt that," Traven muttered, deeply concerned with the power emission that he'd just sensed rippling through the capitol. No human wizard could create such a current, and the wind whispered of darkness and corruption, not light. It was the girl with the chaos sphere, and without a doubt in his mind, the Arch-mage was determined to make a forceful move whether the Blades liked it or not.

_Damn them all_, he decided. The artifact could not be allowed to remain in the hands of an uneducated commoner, and the government had been most unappreciative of his advice to store it at the University. Now he would not allow them time to debate their next move, and he was sick of listening to the polite but firm bullshit and denial that Arelius was giving him. The time to wait was over, and if a disaster was going to be diverted...Traven moved from the window and muttered a spell to call together his most trusted councilmen.

The girl would soon learn to give greater shape to the power in her possession, although he couldn't for the life of him understand how. The stories concerning the spheres must have been myth, for if a lone swordswoman could survive channeling Mehrunes' power, surely a man like him could completely master it? To wield such power...

"This is not for me," Traven protested, folding robed arms across his chest. The artifact could not be used, but studied, and then its fate would be safeguarded against Oblivion. It was the only way, and he was utterly confident that he possessed more wisdom than the Imperials serving the crown.

********************************************

Thanks for the reviews everyone. I hope that no one has forgotten some of the details from earlier on due to spaced out updates, and I also hope that the interaction between Mehrunes and Portia is still enthralling. I realize that he's cornered her several times now, but that's the sort of behavior that his personality is geared toward.

Also, and I feel like a total idiot for this, but I don't think that I've mentioned Portia's hair color anywhere in this story yet. What the heck is wrong with me? It makes me wonder what everyone has been picturing, but anyway, I mentioned it here, and I'll need to go edit earlier sections to put it in place. (picture me slapping myself here) Enjoy the fast update!


	30. Chapter 30: Just Out of Reach

Chapter 29: Just Out of Reach

Breaking her had been the initial goal, and it still was, but Mehrunes Dagon found himself sitting and pondering a shift in his plans—an alteration to the tone and context of his desire for revenge. Breaking someone meant seeing them crack under pressure, beg for mercy, and forsake hope. That was how he'd always understood and applied the term, but there were other ways to break someone, and for entirely different reasons.

_No_, Mehrunes frowned. The reasons hadn't changed, but the blind wrath that had compelled him to dream of torturing Portia was waning, and in its place, something else grew and gnawed at him. To destroy her spirit and see her dead had a certain appeal to it, but once he killed the spirit, she would just be another contemptible mortal, and there were enough of those as it was—way too many. If only there was a way to bend her to his will or somehow tame her for a lesson in humility!

Mehrunes paced across his bedroom floor with a thoughtful frown, the idea of taming Portia tantalizingly ludicrous, and for that very reason, death would likely be the only acceptable end result if he wished to preserve his sovereignty and honor, unless...Molag Bal. Memories of sitting about with his brother in Coldharbour surfaced, the two having had many discussions when sharing a mutual interest in Jagar Tharn.

_"Mehrunes, you and your harping on destruction and death get damn annoying. I love pain and suffering as much as you, but look at the spirit over there. He hates me with everything that's left of his being, but he still bows to me. I make him bow, and for that, he respects and fears me. His soul belongs to me, but it's not broken. You like to break things once and dance on your enemies' graves, but with the way that I do things, I have satisfaction for eternity."_

Mehrunes hated when one of the other princes had a point. He despised listening to them, but occasionally, some of his equally chaotic kin expressed interesting sentiments. Of course, he wasn't obsessed with capturing souls like Molag Bal, but there might be one soul worth keeping, and the thought of her head bowed before him was absolute bliss. His mind drifted over the scar on her hip. She _was_ his, wasn't she? The thought made him smirk as his boots dropped to the floor. Let mere death be delivered to other, less deserving beings.

_They're all annoying mortals_, his mind whispered, and he growled softly as he imagined the ignorant, secure world in which these humans dwelled. Soon his name would lift from quivering tongues, and the blood of the last Septim would flow from the Imperial walls. Indeed, what could stop him? The emperor and his kind had proven a disappointing challenge, for a few assassins had all but destroyed them, and faced directly with the prince, they'd probably cower or attempt to hold their heads high while he lobbed them off.

So many weaklings, so little time.

_Not her_, Mehrunes reminded himself, removing his shirt and tossing it onto his bed.

"My lord," Horace politely interrupted, stepping into the room. "Ruined Cloak will return shortly." _He'd better_. The amount of energy that Portia had released today was astounding, which convinced Mehrunes that she had worn the sphere for some time, and maybe she still did. _But she was naked._ If she'd been wearing the sphere during their encounter, surely he'd have seen it. What if the sphere had someone fractured during her teleportation between dimensions? Travel between planes could have extremely adverse effects, and with pure chaos being thrown into the mix, it was a recipe for disaster in a common mortal's case. If a piece of the sphere was stuck inside of her, or if its energy had diffused into her...Damn, but that would be a nightmare to solve, but it _would_ explain why he couldn't isolate the artifact when she channeled power.

"Be prepared to house new company when Ruined Cloak returns," Mehrunes ordered.

"As you wish, my lord."

"Good. And the elf's body?" Horace remained neutral but for a slight curl of disgust to his lips.

"It's being disposed of as we speak," the man announced. "Although its condition is questionable." Mehrunes glanced at the man with an indifferent attitude, knowing full well that Ruined Cloak had habits that most deemed...unsavory.

"Just get rid of it," he dismissed, and while Horace gave a light bow, Mehrunes knew that the relaxed expression was well-trained. If the empire was destroyed by his forces at the end of this, opportunists like the Imperial would exploit the situation, and in that sense, Horace did have much to gain from the current arrangements; however, Mehrunes could offer him nothing concrete except money until then. The greatest rewards would not be given but taken by those who managed to survive the onslaught, and Mehrunes could not guarantee that Horace would not be mistakenly killed during the upcoming battles, unless the man openly sided with Oblivion, that was. Mehrunes had a distinct feeling that the Imperial would never do such a thing unless victory was assured.

"My lord, I must ask you question," Horace said, straightening from his bow. "If Ruined Cloak is a vampire, why doesn't he feed like a normal one would? By normal, I mean puncture wounds. The elf's body was drained through cutting, and I wouldn't have questioned it except for the goblet of blood found in my basement. If your servant is feeding, kindly tell him not to leave evidence where my employees might see it. There is already gossip."

"He's not a vampire," Mehrunes shared, sitting on the edge of his bed with elbows resting across his knees. "And I thought that your servants were forbidden from entering the basement."

"They are," Horace bristled, but voice kept steady and amiable. "But servants will play when the master's away." Mehrunes snorted. It wasn't his problem if Horace couldn't control his own workers. The prince had never had major problems in that area. "Very well," Horace finally spoke, understanding the silence. "I'll personally see that the matter is handled."

"Good," Mehrunes said, looking at his human toes with their lack of sharp nails. He was coming to be comfortable in this body, although the lack of four arms was still an inconvenience.

"Not a vampire," Horace mused aloud as he turned for the door. "Something worse I imagine." Mehrunes smirked and picked dirt out from beneath his fingernails.

"Something undefined that should have died long ago," he answered. "You're dismissed, human." The door shut behind Horace as Mehrunes reclined on his bed, a knife twirling between his fingers as he thought about upcoming events.

***************

The body was unceremoniously dumped into an open sewer canal, Gilthan's once richly colored clothing floating like a garish ornament among half-eaten foodstuffs, broken boxes, and rags. Dead eyes stared at nothing as the corpse began its journey, and the two cloaked men who had so carelessly disposed of the former mage dismissed the tragedy as so much trash.

"What about this?" one of them asked, holding aloft a silver ring that bore the strange seal of a wreath encircling a splay of feathers.

"Get rid of it," the other replied. "There's to be no evidence that he was here." Wordlessly, the ring was tossed into the sewer along with the corpse, the jewelry landing on a puff of fabric near the elf's head, blond strands of hair brushing against it. Then the Mythic Dawn turned their backs without a thought as to where the corpse would end, and Gilthan became a meaningless memory in their bloody history. The rats would probably gnaw on the flesh as the body decomposed, or perhaps a beggar would dare to pull it from the canal to search for money. It didn't matter, and so they left, and the body floated onward.

The corpse did not have far to go, for the grating at the end of the sewers would not allow it to continue into the open waters beyond. Golden skin pressed against bars, and a large mud crab tentatively picked at one of the hands. The movement jostled the corpse, and with the shifting of fabric, the silver ring dropped from its perch and hit the crab's head, bouncing free to pass through the grating and into a shallow drivel of fouled water. The water moved but slowly, and the ring with it, light becoming brighter as the hours passed until with a small clink, the ring was exposed to fresh air and dwindling daylight as it tumbled onto a rock.

"What's this?" a shy voice asked, and a thin hand reached out to snatch up the ring. "You're pretty." Ragbag Buntara kept tossing the ring from hand to hand as her wrinkled face beamed in delight. Her luck was looking better all the time, and as she made her way back to the Temple District, she was convinced that nothing could ruin her mood. This trinket would fetch her a nice sum, maybe even several day's worth of food, and so long as none of the other beggars stole from her, there were no worries to be had.

"And where did you find that, citizen?" Buntara froze, her eyes widening in stunned horror as she turned to find the infamous Captain Lex staring her down. The man could make the blood freeze in her veins with one look.

"I...I..."

"Captain!" The officer groaned, and Buntara took the opportunity to toss the ring to the ground in surrender and run. If she didn't have it, he'd leave her alone, and what did a single ring matter anyway? It lay forgotten as she sprinted as fast as her weathered legs would allow, and behind her, the sounds of argument assured her that she'd escaped.

"Mandila, I don't have time for this."

"But, sir..."

*************

Horace was annoyed by the whole situation, but Ruined Cloak would never defy his master to humor the man. With the Imperial diplomat, it was always: "Be subtle. Find the sphere without drawing attention to ourselves." However—and Ruined Cloak suspected that even Horace was coming to realize this—the sphere would elude them if they didn't exert some force. Subterfuge had narrowed their search, but now that it had, there was little else to be gained by making contacts and asking questions, for the only people with useful answers were those who were most dangerous to their goals: namely Arelius and Portia. Mehrunes wanted to take Portia, and even though time still remained before the ideal departure window, his master was convinced that the woman personally kept the sphere, and the servant was inclined to agree. So he would search the house and see if the sphere could be found, and if not, Mehrunes was determined to act. Whatever had happened at the baths had certainly solidified his lord's intentions.

Ruined Cloak stood in a heavily shadowed corner of a courtyard as he pondered the state of his master, for the prince had returned from the palace with a troubled and aroused air. There had been a comment about the woman harnessing chaos, then nothing but an order to investigate the enemy manor, and despite his lord's control, Ruined Cloak sensed the prince's frustration. He had, of course, magically sought the chaos sphere, and while Portia possessed an abnormally charged spirit similar to Mehrunes, he could never pinpoint the artifact on her. It was possible that she'd merged with the chaotic force until distinguishing the two became impossible, for that was how Mehrunes' aura functioned, but the only way to know for certain would be to interrogate Portia.

Horace knew nothing of this. The human didn't even know the extent of the sphere's power or why Mehrunes did not just want it, but needed it. The prince had never spoken of it directly to Ruined Cloak either, but the man could put the pieces together himself, and he knew the spheres' history. Yes, it was a complicated matter, and Portia was the key to solving the theft, as the last few days had proven. She either had the sphere or knew where it was, and risking exposure by taking her wasn't nearly as problematic as before since his subordinates had reported a disturbance in the house.

_The dunmer assassin_. There was no proof, but Ruined Cloak trusted his instincts, and they were telling him that the enemy was closing in.

He waited as most of Arelius's servants departed for the night, and Lucretia was also preparing to leave, the shadow watching her as she threw a cloak about her shoulders and went to visit her sick sister. Horace had done his part well then—not that food poisoning was a very difficult task, but the man liked to elevate his contributions. That same Imperial bravado had been lacking when he'd seen Ruined Cloak cleaning bloody hands in the kitchen, which made the hooded figure smile as he recalled tilting his head to allow Horace a glimpse of the blood running down his jaw. A blanch and grimace later, Horace had left to complete his errand. Arrogant fool.

Ruined Cloak strode up a set of stairs toward the balcony where he'd seen Portia spend her evenings, and entered her room with little trouble. A few, quick words and the doors unlocked themselves, allowing him access to her belongings. Deft fingers examined each surface in a thorough manner that Tamil would have appreciated, but nothing was found except for a few books on Oblivion and Mehrunes Dagon. Ruined Cloak was surprised to find that many of the books were written in daedric, for his master rarely spoke of the woman's talent, but he could see why the prince had a budding obsession with the female.

With his usual stoic patience, Ruined Cloak realized that there was nothing to find in Portia's chambers, and a quick spell revealed that the area was devoid of powerful artifacts. The lack of progress would be scoffed at by Horace with his desire to keep clean hands, but Ruined Cloak only offered a thin smile as he entered a hallway, several of his fingers quietly twitching as he wondered what else could be found in the manor.

It wasn't long before he was facing an unmarked and locked door—not the study, he quickly recalled from previous observations, but a part of the house he'd rarely seen accessed. An image of a dark shadow slipping from the walls came to mind, and he quickly entered the vacant room, curiosity and predation curling lightly about his muscles. He smelled brandy and the sour taint of a restore-fatigue potion, which he quickly located sitting uncorked on a mostly vacant bookshelf. Knives littered a nearby table, a black outfit was flopped over the back of a chair, and bandages and ointment lay on the unmade bed. Clearly the servants didn't enter here, and the occupant had a penchant for violence if the few reading selections and copious equipment were any indication.

His eyes were drawn toward a broken wax seal that was pinned to the desk with a knife, and in a rare display of emotion, his mouth pressed into a thin, displeased line. He knew that seal with its boar's head, and that Lenicon would dare to betray his master brought on a bout of indignity that had his blade itching for use. What an unfaithful follower, but the man would soon learn his lesson, for there was only one reason that this seal would be in the hands of Blades.

_He was seen with a dark elf at the theater_.

Ruined Cloak tilted his head to the side and ran a gloved finger over the wax's raised rim. The elf had been at Horace's, and now this. He could imagine the woman's blood on the tip of his tongue, just as the Altmer's had been only hours before, but the desire did not make him anxious. No, things happened in their own time, and the Dawn was destined to win this conflict. If he remembered anything of his mother before she'd died, it was her telling him that good things come to those who wait. She had been correct, for once, and Ruined Cloak stepped away from the seal, now seeing Tamil's identity on everything in the room.

He left the manor with his newfound knowledge, already planning the swiftest way to reach Tamil's room in a conflict. His master would not deny him a personalized target, and perhaps the dunmer would return tonight in time for the shock. Portia could be secretly taken from her room, and Tamil could be killed in her bed. He was counting on the element of surprise, but what he did not notice was that he'd disrupted the woman's room. A thread had been gently strung across the foot of the door, but not anymore.

*****************

Mehrunes leaned against the alley wall with Ruined Cloak at his side. The other two assistants were keeping an eye on the opposite side of the manor, and with the stars twinkling above, they waited. The plan was simple: Ruined Cloak and Mehrunes were going inside through the courtyard, whereupon Portia would be ensnared in a spell, and Mehrunes would carry her out. There would be a lookout from below, and Lucretia had just returned looking haggard. Given another few hours, the women would be asleep or at least in their respective chambers. No one would hear anything.

"The dunmer isn't here," Ruined Cloak commented.

"You can always come back for her head later," Mehrunes answered, far more interested in watching the light inside Portia's bedroom. He could imagine her undressing and rewrapping her wound, climbing into bed with one of her books to study until her eyes drooped. Head tilted against the wall, and arms folded across his chest, he extended the scene as he watched a guard ignorantly pass the alleyway. It was a quiet night, and no one would be the wiser to the prize soon to be slung over his shoulder. He could only dream about the woman's reaction when all was revealed, but perhaps he'd let the others question her first before making himself known. He enjoyed his banter with her as Cassius.

"My lord," Ruined Cloak spoke, but Mehrunes' response was delayed as he dwelled on images of Portia's bare body with its crisscrossing collection of scars.

"What?" he roughly asked.

"There are guests." Mehrunes' eyebrows rose in question as he noted the three robed figures knocking on the manor's front door. This was not part of the plan, and he hated unwanted mortals, especially snotty mages, which these three resembled. Sharp canines grazed his lips as they pulled into a frown, and he glared as if the new arrivals would be warded off by his unseen anger.

"The University," he snarled, the idea of delaying Portia's defeat grating against his nerves.

"Perhaps they are looking for the Altmer," Ruined Cloak suggested.

"At this time of night?" Mehrunes huffed. "Unlikely." He didn't need to mention Traven, because both of them were already thinking about the man and his preparations for an artifact.

"If they're going to move the sphere, this might be an opportunity," Ruined Cloak continued, and Mehrunes felt his annoyance spike, but not at his servant.

"No," he staunchly refused. "She wouldn't hand it over. If she's had it this long..." He couldn't believe that Portia would surrender her claim to Traven. She'd taken the sphere in personal retaliation, and the artifact was powerful, so no one in their right mind would easily release it, least of all someone with her willpower. There was something else at work here, and he didn't like it. "Let's see how long they stay."

*****************

Portia nibbled on a sweet roll as she approached her room, and heard Lucretia berating a servant for tracking dirt into the house. The argument was lost on her as she worried over where Gilthan could be, for she'd been unable to contact him, and nothing that she'd done to locate him had worked. After seeking him at the University, she'd asked several beggars for help, but they were so high strung that they'd either shied away from her or mentioned murder. Her peace of mind would have been better off having never asked them, and even the sight of a waiting bed did nothing to instill calm as her door gently swung open.

A hand traveled upward toward her ear, the fingertips brushing against a smooth orb, and her stomach tightening in discomfort. She wasn't even going to think about today—not with Gilthan's absence hanging overhead, and there was also Arelius, who'd mentioned worsening relations with the University. The man was still out at this hour, and Lucretia had just returned from her sister's home—something about food poisoning.

Portia settled into a chair and loosened her hair, trying to focus on absolutely nothing as the candle beside her burnt lower and lower. It was late. Perhaps she'd best turn in for the night.

_Crack_. _Crack. Crack. _

The urgent knocking startled her, and Portia automatically leapt from her seat, the pounding continuing in harsh demand until she whipped open the door. One of the younger servants stood before her, hands nervously fidgeting with the hem of his tunic, and Portia vaguely recalled something about Lucretia having taken him in after an accident.

"My lady says that you need to leave," the boy hurriedly conveyed, and then Portia heard it: the sound of conversation drifting up the stairs. Lucretia was talking with someone, or multiple someones. "Please, ma'am," the servant continued. "She says that you mustn't go downstairs."

"Thank you," Portia replied, sending the boy away with a nod. Goblin's gall, but what the hell was happening now? She rushed into her room and strapped her sword to her belt, followed by throwing her books and some clothing into a bag that she slung over her shoulder. She wondered if Lucretia was safe, if maybe her sword would be needed, but no, if Lucretia had told her to leave, it was for an important reason. The woman wasn't one to overreact.

"My husband isn't home, gentlemen," Lucretia's voice floated through Portia's open door, the woman's volume amplified for her benefit. Men? Mythic Dawn? Guards? Portia was about to leave by way of her balcony when the same servant from before burst into her room, freckled face flush from running.

"Not that way, my lady," he gasped, holding a cloak out for her. "Come with me."

"Is Lucretia alright?" Portia demanded, wrapping the cloak about herself.

"She's fine," the boy assured. "But the mages aren't too happy with her." Portia paused, but only barely as the boy led her down a small, spiraling stairwell built for servant access to the kitchen.

"What do they want?" Portia questioned as her guide cracked open a side door. It was the entrance that servants used when coming and going from work.

"My lady didn't say," the boy apologized. "She merely told me to get you out like we discussed." Portia frowned and looked over her shoulder to gauge her options. So Arelius and Lucretia had made arrangements without her knowledge again. Well, perhaps it was for the best this time, even though she hated to admit it. "You're my mum, okay?" the boy said, sounding terrified at the thought of her refusing.

"Is Lucretia alone with the mages?" Portia asked.

"Please, ma'am," the boy pleaded. "I don't want to get in trouble. We must leave."

"...Okay..." Portia reluctantly agreed, taking the boy's outstretched hand in her own. They exited the manor holding hands, a hood pulled up over her face as the boy nervously chatted about a frog that he'd recently caught. When they were a safe distance from the house, Portia kneeled and placed two hands on the boy's shoulders while attempting to give him a reassuring smile.

"You did a wonderful job," she told him. "Was there another part of the plan?"

"No, ma'am," the boy shook his head. "My lady said that you'd know where to go from here." Portia puzzled over the comment before she remembered the old, iron key that she always kept on her person for emergencies. She could still hear Arelius's warning as she stood and rummaged about her belt for it.

"Give Lucretia a message for me," she instructed. "Tell her thank you, and that I'll be waiting to hear what happened."

"Yes, ma'am." And the boy scurried off to retrace his steps to the manor while Portia prepared herself for a night among the dead. The days of a comfortable existence might be gone for some time.

********************

"You do not come into my home and make demands!" Lucretia crossly declared. The front door was again open, and the mages stumbled outside. "You tell Traven that if he wishes to talk, he can come personally and not send his dogs at an inconvenient hour." The mages began to argue, but the woman would apparently have none of it. She placed hands on delicate hips and held her head high, a condescending sweep of her eyes silencing the unwelcome visitors.

"Ma'am, we are following orders of the highest degree," one of the mages said. "And we merely wish to speak with Lady Augustine. She is needed at the University." Mehrunes snorted as the words barely reached his ears, the heated argument being kept to a minimum volume for the sake of propriety.

"You'd best leave before my husband returns," Lucretia continued. "He will not be as lenient as I for your intrusion, and no one by the name Portia Augustine lives at this house. She's been gone for days." Really? Mehrunes wondered at the lie and almost laughed at how pathetic the mages were when the woman sent them away. She neatly spun on her heel and shut the door in their faces, but the visitors did not leave. Oh, they appeared to vacate the area, but Ruined Cloak's sharp eyes said otherwise.

"They're staying," he warned. "And they're fanning out—casting spells."

"Fetchers," Mehrunes growled. "We can't have an audience."

"Death is a sure means of secrecy, but I don't recommend it in this case." Ruined Cloak was correct in his assessment, causing Mehrunes to inwardly fume at the University's meddling.

"We'll wait to see if and when they leave." But they didn't. For the entire night, the mages kept their vigil, and when dawn came, both sides were left empty-handed. There had been no signs of life in the manor but for the exit of two servants, a woman and child, and that was hardly noteworthy. Mehrunes and his servants returned home as the dawn began to creep into the sky, but the mages remained, making themselves an enemy that no one in their right mind would want.


	31. Chapter 31: Being Put in Place

Chapter 30: Being Put in Place

A line had been crossed, and Arelius wasn't about to let it slide. He didn't even wait for the woman at his heels to finish speaking before he pushed his way through the double doors and boldly strode further into the compound. The University was involved with the chaos sphere purely for advice and Geoffrey's orders for cooperation, but that cooperation only extended so far as the empire's interests were concerned. Just because Arelius had said that the University might be entrusted with the sphere didn't meant that they had a right to expect or force the issue, and that the mages had dared appear at his home, asking to see Portia in an open affront against his stipulated terms, agitated the Blade's sense of pride and authority. There was no reason that Portia should need to flee in the middle of the night while his wife dealt with unwanted visitors.

"Sir, Arch-Mage Traven and the council aren't ready!" objected a small voice behind him. The tiny Bosmer was futilely attempting to overtake Arelius's brisk pace without jogging.

"They're in here?" Arelius questioned, unconcerned with the woman's flustered expression.

"Yes, but sir..." her voice trailed off as Arelius entered another room, his hard, brown eyes quickly scanning over the handful of men and women seated in a large circle around him. Some glared at his sudden appearance while others whispered and shook their heads, darting glances at Traven, who sat at the far curve of the circle with hands folded across his lap, looking like a king on his ornate throne. Then an assortment of robed bodies angled toward Arelius as he boldly stepped forward, completely unfazed by the tension permeating the air, and face stern as he waited to be acknowledged.

"Sir Arelius," Traven finally spoke, the room's murmurs dying as the man's voice rose. The Arch-Mage was as stoic as Arelius, the two facing off without any sign of retreat. Still, Arelius knew that he couldn't be as abrupt as he desired, for the situation called for some decorum and caution lest he create unnecessary hostilities between forces that occasionally benefited one another.

"Arch-Mage Traven," he politely replied. "The secretary mentioned that you might be busy, but considering the importance of the issue at hand, I thought it acceptable that I pay you an impromptu visit."

"I'm assuming that you are referring to the message that several of my colleagues delivered to your home last night," Traven stated, back straight as an arrow. "If that is the case, I fail to see why you could not wait to be summoned for an audience." Arelius took another step forward and ignored the numerous eyes pinned on him, everyone waiting to see his reaction to the silent reprimand within Traven's comment. The sound of his heavy boots hitting the floor echoed around the large, vaulted chamber, and the secretary hurriedly moved to seal the room's doors.

"I do not take issue with having a few unexpected guests," Arelius commented. "What I take issue with is that they wished to remove Portia from my home for a private conversation in the middle of the night, _and_ offended my wife by imposing themselves on her at such an hour. I was under the impression that the Council of Mages had more tact than that." Traven's face hardened, and fingers tightened around the staff lying across his knees.

"Our current situation is of the utmost importance. You yourself came to us for aid, and a new development led us to seek out information from Lady Augustine. I apologize for the inconvenient hour and any offense, but the problem facing us is larger than we imagined, and we were apt to act rather than wait." _How very diplomatic_. Arelius wished that Portia was present to hear the mage's paper-thin justifications.

"Any University involvement in this case is to go directly through me," Arelius reminded the council. "You have been invited to provide input, but that gives you no right to act independently, as if the problem in question were under your jurisdiction. Last time I checked, University interference in official Imperial business wasn't sanctioned." Nervous eyes shot back to the Arch-Mage, and Arelius waited.

"We hold the empire's interests above our own," Traven declared. "And since we have offended you so greatly in this misunderstanding, perhaps you would be kind enough to personally escort Lady Augustine here for an audience, or at least inform her of our need to see her." _I imagine that you would love that now that she's disappeared,_ Arelius thought, the sarcastic edge to his tongue muted by years of schooling.

"I'm afraid that she is currently in the middle of an important assignment," Arelius casually shared. "I do not know when she'll return, and when she does, whether or not she wishes to see you will be her choice. You have not given me a reason for your urgency, and so I will not give her a direct order." Traven's hands had slowly been forming a death grip around his staff, and now he flew upward from his seat, jaw set squarely as Arelius finished dismissing the council's request.

"A reason?" Traven demanded. "She is holding one of the most dangerous and destructive artifacts known to man, and the resulting channeling of magicka is daily being measured by my mages." Arelius noted a few eyebrows rise at his word choice. "As a man of reason, I'm sure you see the danger, and we would like to examine Portia for adverse effects."

"An admirable concern that I'll decline from sharing," Arelius retorted. "You should have considered your argument before attempting to skirt the rank of command here." At that, Traven's eyebrows almost leapt off of his forehead, and a brief female chuckle was heard from the edges of the room, making bodies shift uncomfortably.

"Are you suggesting...?"

"I'm suggesting nothing," Arelius calmly dismissed. "I'm merely reminding the Council and the University in general that should they seize a citizen or take items that belong to someone else, it will be illegal and handled as such." Traven's scowl smoothed into smugness as he reseated himself, and Arelius could imagine what the man was thinking. Imperial guards could search the University for weeks and never uncover its secrets, and that, plus the loyalty that the mages would feel in dispelling an intrusion into their world, would foil justice. His threat was muted by that knowledge, and Traven dared Arelius to make good on his words as fingers gently released a staff.

"We wouldn't dream of breaking the law for our own ends," Traven assured, and Arelius coldly smiled. It was time to bluff.

"Good. I'd hate for the Elder Council to insert itself into University governance as it did during the last political crisis. Ocato does hold that right since your charter is dependent on the government." A drop of sweat could have been heard falling in the room as Arelius dismissed himself. "Good day, and thank you for your time." It felt good to have something to hold over the mages, but Arelius knew that Traven wouldn't take long in discerning the level of seriousness behind his threat, meaning that Arelius's next stop was the Elder Council.

Portia would need to hide until he could gain some actual leverage over the University, but it wouldn't be a problem since Ocato liked expanding the council's power. Besides, the high councilor owed him a favor, and collecting on it would either be acceptable or gained through pressure. There was, after all, a reason that the Elder Council was wary of the Blades, for they answered to the emperor, not other officials. Nothing was going to jeopardize Imperial business—nothing. And so, it was with a satisfied air that Arelius departed the University and continued his never-ending tasks, his path uninterrupted but for a glimmer of silver that caught his eyes along the street.

A ring?

Arelius pocketed the piece of jewelry for no particular reason, and then he was on his way.

******************

Mehrunes strode along the palace training yard with an overcast expression, his mind noting the distinct absence of pupils this morning. Apparently lessons had been canceled, which meant that Portia wasn't here either, and he'd even checked the library. Not at home, not at work, and Arelius's manor was still being watched by mages. Fetching mortals couldn't make anything simple, and for once, he hoped that the Blades were capable of protecting their own, but how had Portia gotten out of the house unnoticed? Now she was missing, and while the mages might not be able to find her, neither could he, which was the first since he'd come to this plane.

The daedric prince paused as a swordsman crossed his path, the man's tunic soaked with sweat.

"What happened to the morning classes?" he roughly demanded.

"Oh, um..." The man was clearly taken aback by Mehrunes' impatient tone. "If you mean the children, classes have been suspended until Lady Augustine returns from a trip. At least, that's what I was told." Damn. Mehrunes stalked off while the useless human frowned at him. "You're welcome!"

_Not today, mortal. You're lucky that I don't have time to waste_.

Mehrunes continued walking, oblivious to everything around him as he contemplated ordering Ruined Cloak to kill the spying mages, but no, that would serve no purpose. Portia might be physically removed from him, but there was another way to find her, and he intended to employ it once the sun went down. She was more susceptible to his callings when asleep, but this time he wouldn't merely be summoning her. No, he wanted to go to her—see if spirit travel could work both ways, and if it did, she was as good as his.

********************

There were no rats, no undead, and no booby traps, but it was still a tomb. Portia sat on a bedroll in the corner directly beside the stairs that led upward to daylight, and watched the candle beside her flicker, creating a halo of light that did almost nothing to illuminate the large chambers ahead. There were three rooms branching off of this one, and she'd taken the liberty of exploring them yesterday to find them blissfully empty. There were no exposed corpses—only wall niches that held stone coffins, some with names and others without—and her greatest enemies were the old cobwebs branching between stone pillars.

Overall, the place was dark, cool, and silent, which melded into an eerie isolation that reminded her of a time when she'd been dispatched to the countryside. Caught in the rain, she'd hidden under the walls of an Ayleid ruin, where even the shadows seemed to promise trolls or worse. It wasn't a comforting comparison as she wrapped a blanket about her shoulders and inhaled stale air. At least Arelius had kept the place well stocked, for several crates were lined up against the wall, and each contained an assortment of supplies from blankets, to clothing, to alcohol.

_Some brandy and food would be nice_, she decided, rummaging through one of the boxes. Obviously, fresh food was impossible to store in a place like this, but she found some dried jerky and fruit, which would provide a snack. She'd eaten some oatmeal for breakfast, the dried flakes barely made palatable with water, and for lunch she'd found hard crackers and a jar of jelly. There was enough food to keep her full for several days; it simply didn't taste very appealing.

"Damn mages," Portia grumbled to herself. She uncorked the brandy with the tip of a knife, and took a burning sip. She'd never known that Arelius favored such strong brews, and she could almost feel her toes curling in shock at the alcohol's potency. One or two gulps more and she was done, warmth infusing her as she regarded the flow of chaotic energy in her veins, for she could feel it even now, and the alcohol's heat reminded her of what she'd been experiencing for some time. Times like this made her wish that Gilthan was around to answer questions, but she was stuck in this tomb for an indefinite amount of time.

She tested the waters with a small calling, her mind pulling at the chaos sphere until she felt the familiar spark of life running down her neck and spine. She wondered why it didn't destroy her as she let the power flirt with her nerves, sharply cutting off the supply when she realized that the sensation was actually to her liking. There was more to be summoned if she wished it, but there was a barrier between her and the artifact that was only broken when her emotions exploded, and at such moments, the power was beyond her control. Those outbursts made her realize just how ignorant she was—a channeler by accident who had little control over her heavy charge—but she had been probing the magic and was familiar with its qualities by now. Hence why she could immediately tell when another, darker presence encroached on her own.

_Mehrunes_.

Portia braced herself as she sensed him drawing nearer, the prince keeping his distance but definitely focused on her. Feeling and anticipating his persona was so easy now, and she was sure that hers was as equally apparent to him, which made her curse under her breath. There was no hiding from one another in the spirit—not once he was bent on finding her.

"Portia."

She knew that the voice was inside of her head, but it might as well have been spoken from the dark recesses of the tomb. _Channel the power to block him_, her mind urged, but she didn't, finding his cautious approach unsettling but not threatening. He was only gradually pulling closer, as if worried that she'd run, but she merely remained fixed on him, feeling resigned as he came so close that she could imagine his breath on her neck.

Portia closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, exposed and vulnerable, but mentally steady. Mehrunes brushed across her, sending a chill down her spine that she'd only recently become acquainted with. What was he doing?

"Not asleep yet, but not running." Breath stirred the hair by her left ear, and Portia's eyes flew open, her throat constricting as she found herself face-to-face with black, bottomless eyes set in red skin. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to allow herself to be pulled into the realm between realities, but that's where she was, floating in a dimly lit void where she was alone with his man. Her hands brushed against a stone floor, reassuring her that she was physically still in the tomb, even if the room's outlines were blurred into nonexistence. Soon the spirits would leave limbo and solidify in either his location or hers, and it was always his, because his was a more magnetic and powerful force.

"Mehrunes," Portia stated, acknowledging him with tightened vocal cords as he turned away from her and surveyed the void. The tomb was becoming more distinct again, contrasting shades and outlines developing before her eyes, and Portia nearly panicked at the realization. Mehrunes must have sensed the spike in her energy too, for he turned to her with a smile.

"As a prince, people come to see _me_—not the other way around," he taunted. "But for tonight, I'm doing things a bit differently."

"No," Portia said, moving to her feet, and part of her noticing that Mehrunes still lacked four arms and wore contemporary, mortal clothing.

"No?" he questioned, fangs showing. "Did you think that you were safe from this? Go ahead. Try to banish me." Portia would have, but she knew that it was futile, even with the chaos sphere. Her body was too compliant and drawn to Mehrunes in this moment for emotional imperatives to take over, and he was channeling at a level that he'd never before revealed. It was frightening to sense his true capabilities, and she wondered why she'd never noticed his full potential until this encounter. _You're not helpless_, she reminded herself, and her face hardened.

"You thought that you could just ward me off," Mehrunes mused. "I admit that I'm surprised by how readily you block me from your mind, but surely you realize that I am capable of much more than you. You play with chaos like a child while I am its master, and even if you've had your small victories, it's only due to my extenuating circumstances."

"You've never come to me before," Portia weakly protested, fists clenched while sweat coated her palms. Had he always been this powerful, and she only now sensed it due to the chaos in her own system?

"I didn't, but I could have if I'd wanted to," Mehrunes corrected. "Woman, did it ever occur to you that by channeling chaos, you've made this possible?" Portia didn't move, her back stiff as she wondered whether or not the prince was being honest or merely mocking her. "You're bending the power to your control bit by bit, and at first, you used it to escape me, but in the end, your decision was foolish. The more you channel, the more you immerse yourself in...this." He motioned between his body and hers, and began walking toward her. "Chaos cannot be tamed in a few weeks, and the artifact will continue to pull you into itself."

"You lie," Portia asserted. "I've slipped through Oblivion's grasp many times."

"But to what end?" he challenged, brushing a finger across her chin, and making Portia pause in wonder at the gentle contact, which was so unlike the prince that she knew. "Once upon a time, you wouldn't have been able to feel that. I warned you from the beginning of what Oblivion can do to a mortal." He spun and viewed the now clearly visible tomb, his back to Portia as she processed everything presented to her. Why would he tell her this? It seemed as if it'd be fortunate for him if she were drawn deeper into his influence, yet he had warned her not to use the sphere. There had to be a reason that he didn't want her to channel the power...

"Why are you only now coming to me?" Portia suddenly challenged. "Is it because this is the first time that I've 'disappeared'—the first that you don't know where I am?" Mehrunes gave up examining the room and turned back to her, Portia boldly holding her own as he glared at her. The tension and aggression between them was familiar to the point where it didn't make her feet itch to run, and for a moment, Portia felt a spark of something that she quickly locked away—something triggered by the embers glowing hotly behind Mehrunes' eyes.

"I've been closer to you than you could possibly imagine," he smugly answered. "And you. _You_ have had the sphere this entire time." Portia firmly set her jaw, refusing to give ground as he smirked. "There's no need to deny it. I've long suspected as much." They stood close together now, the proximity one that Portia rarely allowed, but she was not cowed. In fact, she barely registered their closeness, and so she did not pause to wonder why the situation felt like a mere exercise in toleration.

"Isn't it empowering?" he asked her, his gaze drawing hers, although her eyes kept slipping to wander over his neck with its curling designs. "It's addictive to best someone and then learn to wear that victory instead of focusing on the pain." Portia immediately thought of her scar and her conversation with Cassius, not at all surprised that Mehrunes was expressing similar sentiments. "You _were_ wearing your victory, and proudly at that, but now you're hiding. My respect for you might be sliding."

"Really?" Portia sharply demanded. "You've been hiding this entire time, so tell me what the difference is." Mehrunes' eyes narrowed, and his throat vibrated with a deep rumbling that unfurled from within his chest.

"I'm not hiding," he firmly growled. "It's strategy. There's a difference."

"Call this strategy then too." Mehrunes looked ready to hit her before her threw his head back and laughed, causing Portia to grit her teeth together.

"Look at you," he bellowed, still smirking. "We're almost having an enjoyable conversation, and you haven't even noticed." Portia hesitated, suddenly more uncomfortable than usual in his presence. "You didn't even flinch when I touched you." What? Portia shifted, eyes moving toward the floor where her sword sat. "Ah, my lady, don't look so startled. We both know that this has made you stronger. _I've_ made you stronger, and you like it. I bet you get a kick out of mouthing off to me, just like you're proud of that scarred hip of yours."

"Don't give yourself too much credit," Portia countered, but her muscles tensed, her mind reeling as she considered how much more confident and confrontational she'd become since Mehrunes had begun hounding her. In some ways, maybe he was right, and nothing shook her more than the realization that she really hadn't been trying to dispose of him since he'd appeared in the tomb. It hadn't felt unusual to be talking to him that this. When the hell had that happened? And the attraction that she'd felt when he looked at her like she was somehow elevated above other mortals...

"I've made my point," Mehrunes proudly concluded as he studied her stony expression. "That means that this visit wasn't a total waste." He scoffed as he viewed the tomb, and Portia knew that he had no idea where she was. This dark place could be any basement or crypt, and not necessarily in the Imperial city either. _Serves the bastard right_. "How about a goodnight kiss, my lady?"

"Hmmm?" Portia had been lost in thought, but now she stared at Mehrunes like he'd gone mad. "You're crazy if you think that I'm going to kiss you." Why the hell would he want a kiss?

"Just one," he purred, right hand lifting to cradle the back of her neck, and before Portia could react, his lips were on hers, demanding and callously forceful as she gasped. How dare this beast of a prince touch her! Portia bit down, her teeth breaking the skin on Mehrunes' lower lip as he inhaled in surprised pain. He muttered what could have been 'bitch', but Portia was too busy being revolted by the coppery liquid invading her mouth to care, and she quickly released him, Mehrunes stepping backward and wiping a hand over his lips to leave a read smear across the knuckles.

"That was...unexpected," he seethed.

"Why would you expect anything else besides rejection?" Portia disbelievingly pressed, but Mehrunes only stared at the blood on his hand, and Portia noted that his blood was much darker than hers—almost black—and it was much more bitter in taste than a human's blood.

"Keep fighting, mortal," he allowed. "Just remember that you are mine." He vanished, and Portia crumbled to the floor while she gulped down brandy to rid the taste of blood from her mouth. He hadn't actually been there, but as she touched a finger to her swollen lips, she found a dark substance marking her skin, and his words would not leave her. _"I've made you stronger, and you like it."_ Did she? Portia shuddered, pulling her blanket tighter as she marveled over the ease of their interaction tonight, for she hadn't registered their candor until Mehrunes had exposed it. The room suddenly felt much colder, and she allowed the candle to die as she held a hand to her head.


	32. Chapter 32: Facing Losses

Chapter 31: Facing Losses

Tamil was sick of Lenicon's bullshit excuses and demands. His problems were his own for allying himself with the Mythic Dawn, so why should the very people whom he'd tried to betray clear his name? It was a game that she knew well and despised, as was all too evident from the scowl marring her features as she leaned out over the edge of the roof. A chill wind played with her dark bangs, but she barely noticed it as she peered closely at the balcony below her. This was where they were supposed to meet, but then where was that damned aristocrat?

She waited for another hour, merely listening to the street traffic below, little as it was. The small balcony on the rear of the nobleman's house overlooked a narrow street that was only frequented by the occasional patrolling guardsman, for the servants that she'd expected to see were conspicuously absent. In fact, no one even left the house below her, and she knew for a fact that Lenicon's blond maid went for fresh vegetables almost every single day at about this time. It was a small deviation, but even that made Tamil suspicious.

Enough was enough.

Tamil's hands gripped the thin rope that she'd tied to the truss roof's spine, and then she tossed the remainder of the coil downward toward the balcony. Her body swung out over the edge, feet gripping the rope securely between two soles as she quickly lowered herself, her boots hitting the floor with a light thud as she dropped the last several feet. Thin cord was hard on the fingers, but it was also virtually impossible to see from below, and so she gently rubbed her digits together as she moved into the house. The front door would certainly have been easier, and she'd been invited to use that approach, but Tamil had wanted to examine Lenicon's behavior and mood before walking in unprepared.

_A pointless precaution apparently_, Tamil inwardly grumbled.

Inside the house, his bed was neatly made, and an outfit was laid out on the mattress as if he'd been planning to dress for the day, or maybe a servant had prepared it for him. Tamil could only speculate as she advanced to another door and cracked it open, looking into the room beyond to find it as equally empty as the bedroom. Where the hell was he?

Feeling more annoyed by the minute, Tamil was about to open a second door when she saw the puddle. It was a small pool of water that formed at a slope in the floor, a thin, liquid line running from it toward an open side room.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Master, would you like your morning refreshments now?" Tamil turned her head, listening to the slightly strained quality of the servant's voice, as if the woman was worried. When no answer came, the dark elf expected the servant to enter unbidden, for there was a clinging of metal that suggested a tray was being carried, but no, the servant remained outside, knocking once more before leaving. Was the door locked, or was Lenicon a very private man? Tamil didn't count on the latter as she stepped around the puddle and through the archway beyond.

_White and red tiles—likely imported from Hammerfell_. Tamil studied the room's décor as she moved further into what appeared to be a washing room. There was a large, stone tub of water at the room's center, more puddles strewn around it, and a white towel haphazardly thrown across its rim. Touching a finger to a splash along the tub's edge, Tamil noted that the water was cold, meaning that the servants should have emptied the bath by now. Otherwise, nothing seemed amiss, for the cabinets along the far wall were closed, and the rest of the room was orderly, but Tamil's nose still scrunched in consternation.

There was something here, something…wrong. The room was heavily performed, but there was another smell beneath the flowers, and one that she recognized well with her keen senses. It reminded her of her old guildhall's basement, where members who'd broken the Morag Tong's tenets were disposed of, for no matter how much incense was burned or how many times the floor was scrubbed, a certain smell always seemed to remain. Sometimes the bodies couldn't be disposed of for several days, and there was no redemption after that, not even with the damp smells of earth and spiced candles. Here, in this bathing room, it was flowers, pressed linens, and…

Tamil's face was cold as she moved around the tub, her eyes falling on three red dots that lay against the white of the floor. If she looked closer, there were several more on red tiles, but that only made six—six rubies that affected her goals, which weren't looking promising. She walked toward the standing cabinets and began opening them one by one, the first holding soap and lotion, the second towels, and the third…

Damn, fetching Mythic Dawn.

Tamil held onto the cabinet door with clenched fingers as she stared at the body, which for all intents and purposes, seemed perfectly unharmed. The throat wasn't slit, and Lenicon's eyes were even closed, his arms hanging limply across his knees from where his body had slid into a hunched, sitting position supported by the cabinet walls. Either he was playing hide-and-seek, or his killer was very proficient.

_Hide and seek_, Tamil moodily thought. _Yeah, and my mother was a Scamp_. _Damn the man for his inconvenient timing. _

She grabbed Lenicon by the hair and lifted his downturned face, revealing a deep bloodstain across his chest. A small tear in the clothing above his left breast told her everything that she needed to know as she dropped the head back into place. One quick jab to the heart, and Lenicon had been slain. One jab to the heart, and her most promising source of evidence had been torn from her grasp.

Without a backward glance, Tamil opened the door so that the servants would enter, and then she was gone, cursing under her breath the entire way.

************

Arelius sat rigid in his seat, brow creased as he listened to Tamil finish her story, his mind already racing to modify their plans and rectify the loss. News of Lenicon's murder would be all over the town within the next few hours, and while he was more concerned about the death of his source, he could tell that Tamil was bristling over their enemy's potential gloating. He personally didn't care if the enemies were gloating or not, so long as the Mythic Dawn was on their knees by the end of this, and so, with a cleared head, he studied the situation, Tamil leaning against the window frame with a cross expression.

"There's nothing to be done about it, Tamil," Arelius voiced. "It will be your turn to gloat before long." His branch of the Blades had only failed in their duties once before, and it had cost the emperor his life. Such a spectacular wreck would _not_ happen again.

"Before long..." Tamil repeated, sounding much less enthused. "I can still be pissed, sir."

"Well, there is that," he decided, his normal amusement over her irked words lost as he studied the ring sitting before him on his desk. Their situation certainly wasn't what he would have favored, for there was no denying that the Mythic Dawn forever seemed to be a step ahead of them, and now the mages were giving him difficulties. The entire mission was on a knife's edge, and much would depend on his judgment, making Arelius weigh every decision and order that left his lips. He thanked the gods that he'd had the foresight to prepare a hiding place for Portia, but many of his moves would only bear their fruit or failure later. Fortunately for his peace of mind, years of service had trained him not to dwell on possible failings, for there was no room for doubt in this business.

"Sir," Tamil began, always more formal when serious. "What are we going to do about Horace and Cassius? We both know that they're involved in this, and if you'd allow me to test my sewer theory..."

"Not yet," Arelius dismissed, making Tamil's jaw tighten before her face morphed into acceptance. "Don't worry. You'll get your chance, and I do agree with your thoughts on the mud, but if there are two or more of those bastards in that basement, I'd rather fight them on our own terms." He couldn't risk losing Tamil right now, not when the enemy had shown himself capable of besting the elf on two occasions. No, if she died, his hands would be tied. The sneaky dunmer was worth more than other operatives given her history, although much about his associate was a mystery. He'd only been given the barest details, and so she'd earned his trust all on her own.

"You mean draw them out of hiding?" Tamil asked, interest peaked. Arelius had known that his words would grab her attention.

"Exactly."

"Do you have a plan? Of course you do," she corrected herself, propping hands across her knees as she moved to sit on the windowsill. She had that wicked glint in her eyes that told Arelius that she'd risk life and limb to redeem her combat standing.

"It's a risky plan, but one that will work if we're careful," he explained. "The problem is that it requires Portia. I'm sure that the mages aren't the only ones to notice her absence." Tamil smiled for the first time that day, but it was a cold smile.

"Our enemies will be anxious," Tamil voiced for both of them. "I bet Mehrunes doesn't like not knowing where his sphere is." Arelius silently agreed, having suspected that the Mythic Dawn had been trailing Portia for weeks. People watching the house, Cassius seeking out Portia whenever he could—things added up.

"But the mages need to be dealt with before we can use Portia against the Dawn," Arelius continued. "We can work on the plan details once Portia is free to return to public life."

"I take it that you've already drawn up a rather detailed plan as it is," Tamil stated. "And will my assistance be needed?"

"Both of us will be actively involved. I'd hate to send greener Blades into the situation that I've planned."

"Dangerous then," Tamil said, sounding quite pleased. "May I know one more thing in advance?" she pressed.

"Ask away," Arelius invited.

"Are we taking prisoners?"

"Yes, but we only need one." Tamil seemed satisfied, and Arelius wondered if her bend towards conflict had propelled her into her career or developed after she'd started down that path. She wasn't a callous woman, but she was rather indifferent toward death.

"Sometimes I miss the cut and dry approach," Tamil shared, her frustrations making her prone to tart comments.

"Yes, but you know very well that we can't simply take Cassius and Horace into custody."

"I know," Tamil grumbled. "There are rules to how we operate."

"Not just that," Arelius clarified. "What would we do with the two diplomats once we captured them? Without concrete evidence, the legion commander won't hold them for us, and I've nowhere else to put them that's secure. I won't order their deaths without evidence either, which might be a convenient ethic to overlook this once, but we still don't know where Mehrunes Dagon is. I'd prefer forcing them to talk rather than shedding their blood."

"And killing them wouldn't protect Portia," Tamil admittedly muttered. "Fine. So we need them alive, and we need proof to use against them, but what are you going to do about the mages?"

"Leave that to me," Arelius ordered. "You don't want to get involved with Ocato." He could only imagine the relational disaster that would erupt between Blades and the Elder Council if someone like Tamil confronted or worked with Ocato. The man would likely refuse all assistance, as he dealt harshly with anyone who forewent the respect that he demanded.

"I guess I'll get back to spying then," Tamil blankly stated. "Although there aren't many exciting leads." She was thinking about the sewers, and Arelius knew it by the reserve in her demeanor.

"Tamil," he said, face stern like a threatening father's. "I trust that you'll obey me even though I don't keep tabs on you." The dark elf quickly straightened and tilted her head forward with respect. "We've had this discussion before, and I don't want to have it again."

"You can trust me, sir," she quickly vowed, and Arelius chose not to respond as he stood and held a ring between his fingers. "What's that? If you don't mind me asking, you keep looking at it." Arelius sighed and tucked the ring into his pocket.

"It could be the undoing of my hopes for Portia," he allowed, and did not elaborate further as he marched toward the door, implicitly telling Tamil that it was her time to leave. She followed behind him as he contemplated the disappointing results of his quest to make Portia comfortable with a partner. Of course, he could always omit telling her what he'd learned about the ring, but she would never forgive him for that. She had been too close to the elf to not feel entitled to knowledge of the man's demise, and to withhold such information seemed dishonorable. She had a right to know, and postponing would not change her reaction.

"Sir?" Tamil quietly asked. "The elf's not coming back, is he?"

"No, Tamil, he's not."

*****************

It had been days since she'd seen sunlight, and the dark was starting to grind Portia down. She twirled her sword through the air and practiced swipes, but her heart wasn't in the movements, for the stale air and depressing atmosphere were under her skin, and the longer the day grew, the more she prayed that Arelius would come visit her. He'd come bearing food several days ago, but he never stayed for long, and only came well past nightfall, when she sometimes snuck outside to sit in the shadows of a headstone.

_Damn the darkness and damn the University_.

Portia set her sword aside and sat down, wondering if the darkness was the only reason for her recently depressed mood. She thought that inaction had something to do with her anxious need to draw a sword and fight invisible enemies, but the tomb was also starkly lonely and silent but for Mehrunes few appearances. He hadn't manifested himself like before, but she could feel him on the edges of her being, his attention constantly gliding over her once the sun set, and she was quite glad for the distance given his attempt to kiss her. Sometimes he whispered a few words, but they didn't seem directed at her, as if she were merely eavesdropping on a conversation, and perhaps she was, for she'd decided that he hadn't lied to her: using the sphere had been bringing them closer in the long run.

"Bastard," Portia breathed. "Kissing me, acting like he owns me, and...kissing me." She wanted to claim that he was hurting her, but he hadn't done that in a long time, at least not physically. "And now I'm talking to myself. Congratulations, Portia. You're really desperate to get out of this place." A few months ago, all she'd done was sit around and mentally rot, but that wasn't now. "It never will be again," she promised herself.

Leaning into the wall, she remembered Mehrunes kissing her and the taste of his blood in her mouth. His urge to touch her was puzzling, but more puzzling in that it reminded her of someone else, and the comparison made her squirm. It had felt familiar when they'd bantered, although they'd never done so in such a conversational manner before, and his lips on hers had only startled her, not repulsed her. She'd bitten down on instinct, but the way that Mehrunes cornered and mocked her while gently running fingers over her skin...the contrast of smooth and harsh was so much like...like Cassius.

"What the hell," Portia mused aloud, retrieving more memories, like her brief stunned spell with Cassius where she'd imagined that Mehrunes was kissing her. But why the hell would Mehrunes want to kiss her? Cassius had obviously been interested in her from the start, and she had to admit that she was attracted to him in her own way, but Mehrunes was...Mehrunes. He wanted to hurt her, didn't he? _Oh, it's one of his games, Portia!_ She berated herself for thinking otherwise, and yet, was Cassius not also fond of games and challenging her? Such similar, untamed men.

"No," Portia denied, but unsure of what exactly she opposed. The idea hadn't even fully formed in her mind when she'd rejected it, the very suggestion nonsensical and disturbing. She was frowning and felt a headache coming when the tomb door lurched, stone grinding against stone as someone pushed open the stone slab.

"It's just me," Arelius announced, putting her fears to rest as he descended the stairs, armored body imposing in the near darkness. Portia rose, dusting herself off as she nodded in greeting and lit a few more candles to brighten their meeting.

"_Please_ tell me that I can leave this place," she hopefully begged.

"Soon," he promised. "Ocato has agreed to reinforce my will this time, although the man's hardly generous. I'm merely waiting for his official orders to be delivered to the University, and then you're free."

"What exactly are the official orders?" Portia asked, sitting on a crate while Arelius remained standing, posture perfect.

"The mages will be under direct orders not to bother you, and breaking the law will result in Imperial intervention in University affairs." Portia grinned, a light laugh breaking the tomb's bleakness.

"Oh, Traven will love that," she rejoiced, but she quickly noticed that Arelius wasn't smiling. "There's something else, isn't there?" she warily asked, knowing that despite his usual demeanor, Arelius wasn't without a sense of humor. There was more business to discuss if he wasn't even smiling. There was always more business.

"I found this on the street," he calmly stated, face betraying nothing as he extended a closed fist to her, the fingers uncurling to drop a small, silver ring into her waiting palm. Portia stared at the ring, confused, for it seemed familiar, yet she could not place where she'd seen it before. Arelius gave her a few moments before speaking, Portia's heart already dropping at his deceptively detached tone. "Someone from the University was able to identify it," he said. "And there's no question of who it belonged to."

"Belonged?" Portia questioned, eyes widening in understanding. "What do you mean, _belonged_?"

"I'm sorry, Portia." And he was. She could tell, and there might even have been a spark of regret in the depths of his eyes, but words weren't enough for Portia. She wrapped a fist around the ring as tears formed at the back of her eyes, her throat tight as she turned a glare on Arelius.

"You shouldn't have involved him," she stated, hard, but not as angry as she would have liked. She could imagine the blood on her hands again, dead eyes staring at her with a frozen expression that begged for her to explain why. But there was no answer, at least none that Portia could stomach delivering, and now she felt the bile rising in the back of her throat, revulsion much stronger than sadness as she quickly leaned behind a pillar and emptied her stomach. Arelius never said a word as she remained doubled over, tears streaming down her face as she realized that she'd lost the closest friend she'd had in years.

"Did you find his body?" she asked.

"No," Arelius replied. "But don't rest your hopes on that."

"Why?" Portia bitterly asked. "Because it would be cruel to myself?" She spun, facing him. "_You_ convinced me to work with him, and now he's dead. I told you that I didn't want..." Her voice trailed off as she wiped her tears away. "Don't tell me; now you're going to say something like it wasn't my fault."

"It wasn't." Portia breathed deeply, acid-stained breath burning her throat as she closed her eyes, and she tried to blame Arelius for this, but she couldn't. He had only done what he thought best, as always, and she was the one who'd originally drawn Gilthan into this mess. She'd been the one to seek his advice and invite him to the ball and dinner. It had been her who'd mentioned him to Arelius, knowing that the man would want to use Gilthan. She could imagine the elf beaming at her over some random joke, but the jokes were gone, and Arelius wasn't doing anything, only allowing her to vent over the truth that he'd exposed himself through by delivering.

"You have to know what this is doing to me," she hissed.

"Yes," he said. "But that is only something that you can work out. Don't allow yourself to be defeated a second time, Portia. It wasn't you who killed him, but our enemies, and to drag yourself along the earth for their sake would be more than regrettable. You'd be allowing them to break you without even facing them."

"Please get out," Portia said. "I don't know how many times you practiced what you would tell me, but I need to be alone."

"As you wish." Arelius turned to leave, his role in this tragedy suspended while Portia dealt with her own emotions. Somewhere in her grief, she felt a kernel of tenderness that seemed to emanate from the ring in her hand, but it was overshadowed by sorrow. Gilthan was gone, and she hadn't even said goodbye. It was enough to make anyone cry, and she wondered if the elf had blamed her as his blood ran.

_He wasn't like that, Portia_. Then she remembered his letter, the one that had told her that he accepted the risks and wanted to help her. Gilthan, with his smiling face, who'd she'd worried about since that night, who'd she'd brushed aside because Cassius was talking to her...

"Thank you, sir," she softly spoke when she heard Arelius near the top of the stairs. "Thank you for telling me." She held the ring, grateful that at least she'd known how Gilthan felt about the matter. With the other man, she'd never known his thoughts, and he'd died in surprise, the 'why' never answered and hanging above her head. She wondered if Gilthan had been able to answer 'why' for his own case, and somewhere amid the tears that continued to fall, anger began to grow.

What had happened to Gilthan was partly her fault, partly Arelius's, but mostly the killer's. Had Arelius chosen his words to funnel her emotions in that direction? She didn't think that it mattered as her feelings grew.

"Mehrunes," Portia hissed. She couldn't bring Gilthan back, but she could justify his sacrifice by defeating his killer.

Sorry for taking a long time to update, but school's been hectic. I hope to update more frequently than this, and thanks for the reviews yet again.


	33. Chapter 33: The Force of Change

Chapter 32: The Force of Change

Portia didn't know how she was able to grab Mehrunes, but it was quite an easy task, for within moments of her anger being set to boil, she felt his curiosity, his presence drawing ever closer, which was when she struck. She lashed out and coiled around him, and in his startled state, she pulled him closer, invisible tethers tightening with each second. He didn't fight the pull either, but she could feel his surprise and indecision, which made her job easier. One moment he seemed miles away, and the next she was looking at him, or rather, a less physically substantial duplicate of him as his spirit materialized.

"Mehrunes," she coldly greeted through clenched teeth, right hand still closed around Gilthan's ring as a reminder of what had happened. She was certain that the daedric prince was responsible for ordering the elf's death, and while she could never apologize to Gilthan, seeking retribution on his behalf was the best that she could do.

"Mortal, what is the meaning of this?" Mehrunes demanded, black eyes narrowed, and head tilted to the side as he studied her. The tethers were loose now, and Portia could feel her hold over the prince evaporating, for maintaining the high energy necessary to bind him was taxing. He could leave at any moment, but he didn't. He probably found her current state too interesting to ignore.

"You killed him," she accused, face hard—much harder than when she'd seen Arelius.

"You need to be more specific," Mehrunes replied with a snort, clearly unimpressed with her reason for calling him.

"Gilthan, my friend," Portia clarified. "You killed him, didn't you?" There was a pause, and then Mehrunes subtly smiled, leaning his back against a pillar while arms folded across his chest. He wore a thin, white tunic that contrasted sharply with his red skin, and tan pants, his boots gone to reveal feet with slightly clawed nails.

"_I_ didn't kill him," Mehrunes taunted.

"You ordered it!" Portia burst. "Don't act like you're innocent." Mehrunes' smile didn't falter as he shook his head as if exasperated, and Portia's frustration only mounted as she realized how entertained he was. She had never thought him more of a monster than at that moment.

"Why so angry?" the prince asked, still mocking. "The elf chose his side in this conflict, and became my enemy as a result. It is no fault of mine that he paid the price for his meddling. You should not have expected otherwise." There was truth in his words, and Portia recognized that, but it was hard to swallow. She could almost hear Gilthan's laughter as he offered her wine or joked about some pretty, passing woman. "You have no right to be angry with me for this," Mehrunes continued.

"I have every right," Portia retorted. "He was only a friend who told me about the sphere. He wasn't directly involved in this conflict of ours. There was no reason that he had to die."

"How many people die for a reason, mortal? Death is everywhere." Dead eyes asked 'why', and Portia had never given an answer. The other guards had told the man's parents that their son died performing his duty, for everyone had been too ashamed to admit that it was an accident. Accidents didn't have a reason, which made them all the worse. _Gilthan died for no reason_. The idea churned Portia's stomach and rekindled the guilt that she'd tried to minimize. Perhaps it would be better if...

"And did Gilthan die for nothing, or was there a reason?" she asked, voice hollow.

"I already told you that he was my enemy," Mehrunes scoffed, finding her emotions absurd.

"No, what you told me was that he sided with me. You never said what he did to deserve death, and if you killed him out of boredom, you'd better not tell me, because I'll rip your eyes out." Mehrunes looked tempted to broaden his smile, but he settled for a thin smirk as he stared at her.

"He found out where I was." Portia froze, disbelieving what she'd just heard. Gilthan had known where Mehrunes was, and he hadn't told her? Suddenly she remembered his attempts to talk to her the night of the dinner, and now she couldn't stop the regret that flowed through her veins. He _had_ been killed for a reason, but that hardly made the situation tolerable, for Portia didn't think that she could ever forgive herself for not accompanying Gilthan after the meal. Had he felt equally regretful, being unable to tell her of his most important find? In the end, maybe he hadn't forgiven her for failing him.

"Feeling guilty?" Mehrunes asked, and Portia realized that she'd openly been betraying her emotions. "I think that I've told you this before, but you are oh so lovely when you're furious, and having blood on your hands adds to the image." He was only trying to bait her, and Portia did her best to resist. _Gilthan's death still isn't your fault_. _You couldn't have known._ But _he_ would have known, right before he died, and if he'd regretted his decision to help her in any way...it was impossible to know what a person might think under pain of torture and death. Torture was, after all, very effective.

"Gilthan knew what he was getting involved in," Portia affirmed, more for herself than Mehrunes, but the prince didn't need to know that. In fact, exposing any weakness to him seemed suicidal.

"Your spirit is troubled, my lady" Mehrunes countered. "You don't sound very convincing. What was he anyway? Your friend? Lover? Companion?"

"It's enough that you killed someone I cared about," Portia spat, glaring. "Don't mock me, daedra." Mehrunes' smile fell, and he regarded her with a more serious expression. She desperately wanted him to leave, yet he remained where he was, seemingly content to allow silence to stretch onward as she considered her options. She could start a fight, order or ask him to leave (as if either would be effective), or wait for a new development. Really, she wasn't certain that she cared what happened as the ring pressed harder against her skin.

"He died well," Mehrunes stated, and Portia snapped to attention, her grip on the ring loosening ever so slightly. The prince was waiting for her response, and she wondered what impression she was making as she stared at his relaxed form.

"Why would you tell me that?" she probed, expecting another barb to follow his unexpected, serious comment.

"Because I respect you, Sherkyn," Mehrunes replied. "Your elf mocked me, and normally that would have prolonged and doubled the pain of his death. I would have handed him to experts in torture, who would have done things to him that mortals have yet to invent...but he proved determined and brave, and I decided to give him a quicker end as a worthy warrior would receive. I tend not to hand over more skilled and tenacious enemies to the dremora."

"You must have thought little of me then, to allow your dremora to play with me." The words were sharp and flew from Portia's mouth before she could stop them, for her mind was elsewhere, relieved to know that Gilthan had not suffered greatly.

"You were nothing to me when you first came to Oblivion," Mehrunes agreed. "Just a lost soul for the devouring. You would have ended as another nameless corpse in the bottom of some pit. If only I'd known..." _And now he's interested in kissing me_, Portia dryly thought. "Ah, Sherkyn," Mehrunes smirked. "I would never hand you over to anyone now—never. You're all mine, and I don't share. Ask Hircine what happened when he tried 'borrowing' a few items of mine."

"Good luck claiming me," Portia shot back, and Mehrunes laughed while Cassius's words on ownership taunted her from somewhere behind tortured scenes of a beaten, bloodied Gilthan.

"Get some sleep," Mehrunes advised. "And don't hide too long. The game is far less interesting this way. I miss seeing you." He stepped forward and watched her lips, but when she glared, he settled on lifting her hand and kissing her knuckles. She did not pull away from him either, acknowledging that somehow the prince had given her more reassurance concerning Gilthan's death than Arelius had, for Mehrunes had revealed that the elf hadn't broken. If Gilthan hadn't betrayed her, then he hadn't blamed or been angry with her. Instead, he had defied a daedric prince and apparently mocked the man in protecting friendship.

_Oh, Gilthan why did you have to pay this price? _

"You can exact revenge for your friend later," Mehrunes continued, the thought comforting Portia. "Goodnight, Sherkyn." He vanished, and Portia was left standing with a blank expression, his words sinking in only after she finally found the nerve to set the ring aside.

Sherkyn. He had called her Sherkyn, but how could...? Kisses, respect, Sherkyn, touching, mocking, cornering—Portia swallowed hard. It couldn't be. It just couldn't.

****************

"She can't be found, sir," the man apologized with a curt bow, and Traven nodded with a stony frown. This was unacceptable, but he knew that it wasn't incompetency that hindered his search for Portia, but the very real threat of the government and her growing magic. He'd felt a powerful discharge during the night, but its source had almost immediately vanished, meaning that either she had become far more adept at controlling the chaos sphere, or someone had cut off her power supply. Whichever explanation held, he needed to find the woman and put her in custody, or at least confiscate the sphere.

"We will continue to look for her, sir."

"I know," Traven answered, sounding his seventy years. "And I realize that you've been doing all that you can, Delmar."

"It's not easy with our hands tied," the enchanter commented, and Traven appreciated the man's honesty. The redguard was a sturdy assistant and advisor when it came to magical artifacts, for the balding mage was the leading expert in enchantment, and despite his lengthening age, he was quite energetic when it came to this sort of work.

"Arelius is not our only problem," Traven stated. "_This_ arrived from the Elder Council this morning," and he held up a scroll as if it were mort flesh. "You must continue your work without drawing attention to yourself, Delmar. Any powerful magic that might be traced back to us must not be used." Delmar stared at the paper, eyes lingering on the broken red ribbon and wax seal that hung from the scroll. Anyone would have recognized the dragon seal.

"So Ocato is threatening us," he assumed.

"The Imperials want to keep the chaos sphere under their supervision," Traven huffed. "As if they understand what they're dealing with, and we would certainly cooperate with them in holding the sphere if they weren't making this so difficult!" The time for cooperation was over, but Traven still didn't like making overt statements about defying the Elder Council. Many of the mages held negative sentiments toward the government's meddling, but there were also rumors that he, the Arch-mage, was stirring a conflict for his own gain. It didn't bear credibility, but these walls had ears, and his reputation had to be solid enough to hold the University's confidence, for even Arch-mages could not ignore those beneath them. There had been treachery in the guild before.

"What about Gilthan?" Delmar asked. "You haven't mentioned him in some time, and he might prove more useful than myself in these circumstances. If I can't trace the artifact now, I doubt there will be a breakthrough in the near future."

"Gilthan hasn't been seen in days," Traven admitted. "He went to a dinner party and never came home, and while he's irresponsible and has disappeared for several days before, it's unlike him to not tell anyone of his plans."

"Foul play?" Delmar asked, concerned. "Has anyone looked for him?"

"Yes, and he's gone." Traven wasn't nearly as concerned. In fact, he was borderline angry. "He wasn't very keen on betraying his friend, so I wouldn't be surprised if he'd gone on 'vacation' to avoid helping us."

"Perhaps, sir," Delmar allowed, although he sounded extremely doubtful.

"Whatever has happened, we can't rely on him, so I'd like to put someone on following Portia Augustine. With this new order to leave her alone, she might come out of hiding, and when she does, I want to know where she is at all times."

"In defiance of the Elder Council?" Delmar pressed. "We have been friends a long time, Traven, and I'm telling you as someone who cares about the University as much as you do, that this is a bad idea." Traven's eyes hardened, although he understood his friend's concerns. This had not been an easy decision, but to see that chit running around with such power at her command, and no training whatsoever! That artifact belonged in the hands of those who truly appreciated and understood it.

"I realize that it's risky, Delmar, but I haven't said anything about touching the woman. I merely wish to know whether or not the sphere is affecting her and how. She could be very dangerous, and should something happen, our intervention might be necessary. The government is not prepared to deal with the forces that she could unleash."

"That does seem wise," Delmar relented.

"Of course it is," Traven dismissed. "Now, the reason that I called you was because I want to know why Portia Augustine isn't dead. She has no appreciable magical powers, and from what I've gathered, she was such a failure at the most basic of spells that she completely gave up on magic as a child. How is it possible then that she can channel using one of the chaos spheres?" Delmar motioned toward a chair, and Traven nodded as the two men sat to continue their discussion, the redguard propping his staff against the wall with a thoughtful sigh.

"That's a difficult question to answer without having personally examined the artifact," he began. "But there are several possible answers, and none of which you're going to like."

"I'm not surprised," Traven waved a hand. "Continue."

"Since Portia is lacking in magic, it's possible that she bungled the spell scroll that returned her to our world. Just because she found her way here doesn't mean that the trip was smooth, especially if she was under stress when reading the scroll. Because she was holding the sphere while she transported, some of its power might have been imbedded in her; however, that doesn't explain why the power hasn't killed her. All accounts of the sphere show that mortals cannot wield it without dying or going insane. Chaos and the power of Oblivion are not meant for mortal bodies."

"But enchanted artifacts sometimes have a mind of their own," Traven mused.

"Yes," Delmar nodded. "They do, but the chaos spheres are not independent of their master. Like all enchanted artifacts, they are linked to the source of their power, and Mehrunes Dagon is part and parcel of his world and its energy. Hence, the chaos spheres are inadvertently linked to him, and since he's been wearing them for centuries, their power has synced with his persona. They are an extension of his body in a sense, just like a mage's staff becomes like a third arm, and only after death is the staff truly free to be bent to another's will. This is no different, but the bond is much stronger.

I'm sure that you remember the case of the girl who took Umbra. The sword took over her mind and body, but it wasn't just the artifact that did that; it was Clavicus Vile, because it was his wrath and desires that Umbra reflected."

"Then why did the prince need a mortal to retrieve the sword?" Traven questioned. "If the artifacts are part of the daedra, shouldn't Mehrunes Dagon be able to force Portia to come to him?" If that was true, they were in more danger than he'd previously thought.

"Not necessarily," Delmar corrected him. "If someone stole your staff, would you be able to summon it? Of course not, but neither would it recognize its new owner as the rightful one. The spheres are part of Mehrunes, but chaos has a will of its own, and if Portia is willful, the magic will now be connected to her as well as Mehrunes. An enchanted object can be owned, but not fully controlled if it falls into another user's hands. Magic always bends to a force strong enough to control it."

"But she has no skill," Traven argued.

"Like I said, the transportation might have affected her, or..." and Delmar looked a bit uncomfortable. "Or, her lack of skill might be saving her by limiting her channeling."

"It's not," Traven countered. "Every day she seems to be developing a hold over the sphere."

"That's what I feared," the other mage sighed. "In that case, the sphere might intentionally be integrating into her system." Traven's eyebrows arched, disbelief written across his face. "I know," Delmar swallowed. "But magical artifacts are difficult to predict, and since they are so strongly linked to Mehrunes Dagon..."

"That would mean that he's allowing it to happen," Traven finished.

"Umbra lost her mind to the sword, because she wasn't its proper master. Clavicus would never have allowed that to happen, and because he was hostile toward her, the sword reflected his malice, but in this case, it's almost like the sphere has gradually been warming to Portia. She hasn't lost her mind or changed personality. She's simply able to use the sphere, even if we don't know the details."

"Gilthan said that the sphere would make her bleed," Traven stated. "But then he said that she was doing fine. So what does that mean?"

"The sphere stopped hurting her?" Delmar asked, voice dry and worried.

"Apparently, that or the elf was lying to protect her."

...

"Traven, this is serious. I don't think that anything like this has ever happened. Even the Gray Cowl of Nocturnal, which was stolen from a daedric prince, is rumored to instill its wearer with a desire to steal, and to alter identity. These artifacts aren't meant for mortals, and the daedra have always enforced that. Their artifacts cannot peacefully sync with another person unless the original owner relinquishes or loses some control."

"We both know that Mehrunes would never do such a thing," Traven dismissed. "There has to be another explanation."

"Well, the artifacts have always had negative effects," Delmar reasoned, "But it's not only because of the incredible, unearthly power that they contain, but more a result of the will of the daedra. It's not something that anyone has ever proven, but imagine this: all of the artifacts that have been taken from the daedra against their will have taken over the users, and it's been theorized that this happens because the princes are angry and spiteful toward loss. What if a prince wasn't wrathful toward the thief, but felt something else? Might the artifact not be less malignant? They are, after all, reflections of their source."

"You're saying that the prince's lack of hate toward Portia might break the barriers that kept the sphere closed to her?" Traven asked.

"It's possible," Delmar shrugged. "And with the barrier down, the chaos that's been seeping into her has become less of an invading enemy and more of an infusion of power. The fact that she has little control of it right now shows that the process is slow, but after centuries of being worn by someone else, that should be expected."

"But why isn't Mehrunes Dagon stopping it? Traven asked, puzzled. He would never release control over such a prized source of power if he were in the prince's position.

"I don't know," Delmar admitted. "Who knows what a daedric prince thinks? But Mehrunes isn't renowned for understanding intricacies like this. He's supposedly blunt and brutal." Traven absently ran fingers along the curved wood of his beloved staff, eyes fixed on the far wall as he thought.

"So the artifact might split its allegiances," he considered.

"I wouldn't go that far," Delmar clarified. "The only successful time that I searched for the spheres, I didn't sense two distinct powers, but one. Whatever is happening, it's beyond our complete understanding. The spheres aren't splitting per say, and maybe they're not changing at all. Artifacts don't change. It's the wielders that change, and the artifact responds, causing further change in the wielder. It's a cycle."

Traven dismissed Delmar and remained seated for hours, ideas running through his head at an amazing pace. Yes, someone definitely needed to shadow Portia, and when the opportunity appeared, the University would strike. There was no other option, but he would need to pick his shadow well. He needed someone who lacked scruples about his tactics and defiance of the Elder Council, and no one could know of his plans to forcefully take the woman. After some thought, he decided on the perfect candidate, and with a wave of his hand, the person was summoned.


	34. Chapter 34: The Decoy

Chapter 33: The Decoy

Portia removed the sphere from her ear for the first time since the ball that she'd attended with Gilthan. She couldn't see the earring, but could feel it in the palm of her hand, and what a strange feeling it was for her ear to lack the extra weight. The orb was still warm, but her ear tingled uncomfortably, and a thick, churning sensation was building within her. She tried to understand why such a feeling should be affecting her so soon after removing the sphere, and the deeper she delved, the more she realized that she wanted to wear the sphere, which did not please her on any level.

She ran a thumb over the sphere, and a responding spark ran down her wrist, making her more aware that the tomb was colder without the magic. Goblin's gall, but the place even felt emptier, for she was no longer aware of the lingering presence that had become a part of her life—his presence. It was Mehrunes that had been displaced, and it unnerved her to be ignorant of his emotions and activities, for she'd grown accustomed to sensing his moods. Now he might be furious, raging at her, and she'd never have a warning of impending danger, which should have been comforting since she'd frequently been assured that ignorance was bliss, but it wasn't. He was severed from her, and while that might be refreshing in its own right, the unease of a quiet void wouldn't leave her.

"It's so damn isolated down here," Portia complained, distracting herself. She hadn't realized how much the sphere had encircled her until it was removed, and now she wondered if she should ever wear it again. She felt bound to the physical world, which wasn't unusual, except that she'd been unconsciously slipping between body and spirit as of late. Each night, she drifted somewhere beyond this tomb, aware of it, but equally aware of other places—sometimes Oblivion, sometimes the city. There was a draw toward the Deadlands in particular, as there always had been, and it made her question whether her past trips to spy on Mehrunes had merely been her own plotting or the results of a subconscious pull.

_Two feet on the ground_, she assured herself. _That's better than floating around. _

And it was, but something still felt so very wrong.

"I shouldn't..." But how else would she keep track of an invisible artifact if not by wearing it? Portia reluctantly hooked the jewelry back through her earlobe, causing an instantaneous charge to ripple through her body. Her blood seemed to ease back into a steady flow, frustration easing as liquid orange coursed through her veins and into her being, making her mind much more aware of everything around her. No, she corrected herself, it wasn't the tomb that she was more aware of, but things beyond it. Somehow she knew that a dremora had recently been summoned in her vicinity, and probably by an errant mage practicing in the seclusion of night, but there was more, for Mehrunes was there as always, watching the stars.

_I wish that I could see stars_, Portia wistfully thought, glancing toward the stone ceiling, and for a second, she was sure that she'd caught a flash of night sky. Damn, but _he_ had felt that, and she withdrew, nearly smacking herself in the face for unwarranted familiarity with the sphere's connections. Life had been much simpler before returning to the Blades, but she supposed that it had also been far less worthwhile.

Suddenly the tomb door opened, and Portia was on her feet, clearly remembering Arelius's instructions to be ready to leave the tomb at a moment's notice; however, it wasn't Arelius that appeared to escort her to freedom, but Lucretia, the woman cloaked in plain blue as she held aloft a lantern in the otherwise dark underground.

"Good evening, Portia. There's no time to talk. We must leave quickly before anyone realizes that I've left the house."

"You're still being watched?" Portia questioned as she shouldered her bag.

"By the mages and less favorable nuisances," the woman answered. "My magic will not prevent them from casting detect life if my absence is long, and we cannot risk them sensing us returning. This way." The lantern's flame evaporated into smoke as they climbed the stairs and opened the tomb door, Portia locking it behind them, and relishing the feel of freedom. The night was still, and it was theirs to take advantage of as the white tower loomed over them.

"Why the secrecy if the mages have been put in their place?" Portia whispered, tombstones on either side of the women as they walked.

"There's a decoy," Lucretia quietly explained. "But not for the mages, and a Council order will not keep Traven from snooping where he doesn't belong."

"Decoy?" Portia muttered, but Lucretia was moving faster, her cloak billowing as they navigated streets and alleys, the woman's knowledge of hidden paths surprisingly thorough as they neared the manor. Using the servant's entrance, the door was sealed behind them, and Lucretia threw off the hood of her cloak, mouth drawn in a tight line.

"They should be back well before dawn if everything goes well."

*****************

The trap had been artfully constructed, and so Arelius was certain that he was being followed as the cart beside him lurched forward, the horse's hooves clattering off of the stone streets. He'd covered every possible angle in ensuring that the Mythic Dawn would be aware of his activities tonight, which had included leaking a rumor, having this cart appear outside of his home at an odd hour, and finally, putting a damned cat in one of the cart's large barrels. If the enemy used detect life, it would appear that someone was hiding among the transport, and if not...well, the cat would be a little cranky. No harm done there, and if nothing else, the fact that a captain and suspected Blade was personally escorting the cart, even disguised, should have been a tipoff for whomever had been spying on him for weeks. The mages would miss the subtle signs that he'd lain out, but for his other enemies—the ones that were so clever at avoiding detection—they would not be so blind.

"_They say that Imperial riders were dispatched to Chorrol to make way for someone very important—some woman. Lady Fellio's son was one of the riders, but no one seems to know what's actually happening._" Lucretia had discreetly circulated the news around certain elite circles, and Arelius knew for a fact that the Mythic Dawn had contacts among those people, so surely the wings of gossip would have reached them by now, for that had been days ago. If no one took this bait, then the Dawn was either very smart or very ignorant, and he dismissed both options, the former since his tactics had been very subdued to lend an air of credibility, and the latter because he knew better. Lucretia, with her talent for misdirection, would never be traced as the rumor's source, and his home's watchers had proven tactful, but also rash and violent, the last trait being very useful in this plan.

Arelius kept a hand resting on the sword pommel beneath his cloak as he walked, his other hand rising in greeting as two guards opened the city gates for him. The massive doors parted to reveal a road sloping downward toward Lake Rumare, the city's grand, Imperial bridge stretching across the waters toward Chorrol and hill country at the slope's bottom. It was the largest bridge of its size in Cryodiil, having been carved from enormous marble boulders whose quarry had been lost, and its towering archways spellbinding as they glowed white in the moonlight. From the city gates, the fires lit along its length were only sparks of orange in the otherwise dark countryside, for once the doors closed behind him, Arelius was cut off from the city's lighting.

"Come on, girl," he encouraged the horse. Trees swayed with the night wind, and crickets fiddled as Arelius patted the horse's side and nudged her forward. He could have ridden in the cart, but he didn't fancy the idea of being attacked while sitting down, so he walked, his cloak tied loosely about the neck so that it could be thrown off at a moment's notice. He glanced upward at the moon, which would soon be full, and smiled fondly as he thought of his wife, who was probably at home right now, pretending not to be worried. If he was injured tonight, he'd be pampered nonstop for several days on end, so there would be advantages to any minor wounds incurred in this gamble. Such light, habitual thoughts were his prerogative, and they lessened the threat at his back.

An owl hooted, and Arelius glanced to his left, seeing nothing, but wondering what lurked beyond his vision. The enemy had a golden opportunity to attack out here, on the edge of safety, and he was counting on that to lure them out, but not yet. Several guards were standing and chatting by the door at his back, and so an attack would be delayed until the cart was out of convenient earshot. If the Mythic Dawn waited to spring until the bridge, that would be perfect, for Arelius didn't want them running for cover. On the bridge, they'd be forced to fight until the end, and an enclosed space gave a heavily armored opponent like himself a distinct advantage.

The horse's front hooves hit the bridge, and Arelius resisted the urge to look for Tamil. She would be waiting behind the second archway, far enough away that magic wouldn't affect or reveal her until the trap was sprung, but close enough for aid. He mentally counted the paces from the first arch to the second, knowing that he would be on his own to fight for a brief span that could cost a man his life, but he was the picture of calm and collected as he moved. It had been some time since he'd been directly involved in a sword fight, the last having been in the throne room, where he'd battled assassins while the emperor escaped.

That had not been a good day.

Arelius passed closely to a flaming brazier, and the heat fell across his face, clearly revealing his features to anyone watching, but it didn't matter. The enemy was not to walk away from this battle, and sensing eyes on his back, he laid a steadying hand on the horse's side. The animal was a testy brute, being a war horse and unaccustomed to pulling carts. The servants had a terrible time getting the old girl to accept her load, but she was calmer now, feeling her master's reassurance, and he smiled, pleased that she wouldn't bolt when swords were drawn.

"Easy girl," he soothed, taking a moment to appreciate how Lake Rumare reflected the night sky with its stars and thick clouds, and then he gently drew his weapon, the ebony blade held before him so those following would not see it. They were there, somewhere in the dark, and he didn't question the intuition as his grip steadied in preparation. It had been a long time since an enemy had paid for the empire's condition—too long.

The horse snorted, and Arelius carefully began untying his clasped cloak, the night utterly silent but for the soft lapping of water against stone pillars, the crickets having been left behind on the shore. The second archway was just ahead, no more than fifteen paces, and that's when Arelius heard the soft scraping of a weapon leaving its sheath.

_Now_.

Arelius spun while tossing his cloak aside, revealing his armor and ready sword, the blade rising quickly to face a shadow lifting from the bridge's railing. Cast against a flame, the person appeared to be wrapped in black, the orange silhouette dropping as the figure leapt to the ground and lifted a short sword. Arelius was prepared to fight such an opponent as he advanced beyond the cart, but then the person's figure was encircled by flickering red orbs that vanished to leave a hulking, red and black, armored foe in its place.

_Daedric armor_, Arelius noted, pleased that his enemy had chosen heavy armor like his own. It would be easier than dealing with a faster, lighter opponent, but daedric plating was also notoriously difficult to penetrate.

"I've seen this trick before," he coldly state. "Let's see if it saves you." Their swords crossed, and while his opponent was not overly skilled with a blade, Arelius felt a ladening of his limbs beginning in his left side. _Drain strength_, he inwardly frowned, wondering where the second enemy that had cast the spell was hiding. There had to be a second one, for the one he faced had yet to land a hit, and as he deflected his enemy's sword to the left, he took his chance to slice across one of the man's exposed thigh.

There was a hiss of pain, and a red sheen spreading across greaves as the man retreated, the killer still facing Arelius, but keeping his distance and pressing a hand to his wound. Was he healing it? Arelius worked to close the distance before restoration was put to use, but he felt slower, his armor a burden, and it was only sheer willpower that prevented complete paralysis from overtaking him. He had to kill this one quickly, before the other could take advantage of the situation.

_Sfffft._

Damn. Arelius knelt as an arrow hit his shoulder, the deadly point harmlessly glancing off of his thick armor, but the next promising less luck as he swept eyes over the darkness. The enemy with the sword was fast approaching now, and Arelius's muscles tightened to fight gravity as the man drew near, for the weight of his own equipment was dragging him downward. Thank the Nine that he hadn't worn greaves or gauntlets, for lifting his sword and legs was already difficult.

_Wait for it_, he told himself, anticipating more arrows as he readied his own attack, but the arrows never came. He thrust upward with a grunt as the swordsman closed, blade blocking an overhead swipe, but his arm quivering with the effort, and his ears detecting the sound of arrows hitting off stone. The archer was indeed firing, but not at him.

"Tamil!" Arelius yelled. "Take the archer alive!" There was no reply, but he could scarcely concentrate on hearing one as the scraping of metal against metal resounded in his ears. He parried another attack, but his weakened limbs could not hold his blade steady enough to completely repel the strike, his opponent's sword sliding down the length of his own and glancing off to the side. The proximity of weapons and his hampered reactions didn't grant him enough space to properly maneuver, and so the counterattack came too fast, catching the outside of his sword arm.

Searing pain spread across his limb, and Arelius barely managed to retain his sword, blood running down his arm and gathering between knuckles and pommel as his face hardened. He was too weak for direct combat, but he could still win, and with that confidence, he fell to his knees, breathing heavily, and sword resting on the ground.

"You've failed, Blade," his enemy spoke with the voice of a dremora, but Arelius knew the disguise for what it was. He looked upward at the red and black helmet scornfully angled toward him, counting the seconds as a sword lifted to strike and shatter his crown, and the moon granting him enough light to see the small opening between breast plates that his enemy's raised arms exposed.

"For the emperor, whom we failed, but whose will lives on!" And Arelius thrust forward, his sword sinking into the soft tethers of material between hard armor, and watching his weapon pierce his opponent's gut. He drove the blade deep before releasing the pommel and tumbling backward, out of range as the enemy dropped his own weapon and crumbled, hands frantically clutching at the sword in his middle, and the illusion fading.

Arelius found himself staring at a cloaked Breton, the man's face twisting in pain as the Blade gripped his blade and pulled it free amid a gush of red. Dark, dying eyes stirred with hate as Arelius stared down at the man, whose brown pools reflected a malice that he'd rarely witnessed. It bordered on madness, but he would have no pity on this fallen foe, and with a quick slash, he finished the man, blood running across stones and creating a mess that would only be found with the morning light. He was grateful that the short battle had not been detected by the distant guards, who were probably still shooting the breeze.

"Sir!" Tamil called with a smug undertone to her voice. "Look what I found." She walked out of the darkness as Arelius sheathed his weapon and held his injured hand, fingers slick with blood. Tamil was hauling an unconscious body behind her, but she stopped, and her smile fell when she noted her superior's wounded state.

"It's not deep," he told her. "Just a graze." But he moved to lean against the wagon, body still recovering from the spell that was making him wish for a nap, and he never took naps. Lucretia would get her wish of having him home more often for a few days, and she'd tempt him to do so again with her attentions. "Is he alive?" Arelius motioned toward the man at Tamil's feet.

"Basically, although he might wish otherwise" she smiled. "Here, sir." She removed a small bundle from her waist and tossed it to him. "A healing potion." Arelius drank the entire bottle, and relief immediately set in, his skin closing but leaving a jagged scar that would take hours to heal. Useful as they were, potions always left the drinker a bit drained from the energy required to heal, and it didn't replenish blood loss, leaving him craving an end to the night's affairs.

"Fetcher almost got me with one of those arrows," Tamil was saying. "And he's got an eye for cruelty." She held up an arrow and pointed to the jagged head. "These are the worst to try and remove, because they tear up the skin."

"You're unharmed then?" Arelius checked.

"Yes," Tamil assured, eyes falling on the dead man that lay nearby. "Although this wasn't as satisfying as I'd hoped." The man at her feet stirred, moaning as Tamil used her foot to turn him onto his back. "On your knees," she commanded. "And if you try anything, you'll be dead before you can blink." The man rose as ordered, but reluctantly, and his hood fell backward to reveal a young dunmer, which caused Arelius to inwardly sigh. It was a shame how such young lives were drawn into these plots, but he was sure that this boy was neither naive nor innocent, at least not any more.

"If you answer our questions, we won't kill you," Arelius promised. "But if you refuse to cooperate, my assistant here will be all too happy to dispose of you." Tamil tapped her toe against the stones as if impatient, and she probably was, but she did love to intimidate since her work so often denied her that.

"I'll tell you nothing!" the dunmer spat, earning a swift kick to the stomach from Tamil.

"You will or your life is forfeit," she ground out.

"Tamil," Arelius cautioned, and the elf stepped backward before Arelius shifted his attention back to their enemy. "We already know that you're with the Mythic Dawn, so there's no point in denying that, and we also know that you've been watching the house. Who gave you the orders to do so?" The dunmer kept his eyes warily on Tamil as he pursed his lips, eyebrows knitted together as he shifted uncomfortably.

"My master gave me the orders."

"And who is your master?" Arelius pressed.

"You know the answer to that."

"Mehrunes Dagon," Tamil voiced.

"Who gave the word to his speaker, who gave it to me."

"And he's here in the city?" Arelius merely wanted to see if the man would admit the already known fact, but the figure made no reply, only flinching when Tamil took a threatening step forward. "Where is the Dawn staying in the capitol?" Arelius tried. "If you tell us, things will be easier for you."

"Our lord, Mehrunes Dagon is here," the man finally spoke. "And he will have the woman and his treasure. You cannot stop us, and I don't want your kindness." Tamil was ready to pounce, but Arelius held up a hand.

"If he wants her so badly, why doesn't he just kill her? I'm sure he's had his opportunities." The man smiled in a very unpleasant manner that showed far too much wicked delight, and Arelius could tell that it made Tamil's annoyance spike.

"Kill her? He wants her alive." _And he doesn't know where the sphere is_, Arelius added, but he wondered how true that statement was. Mehrunes had to have some idea, and he didn't know what the prince had been doing this whole time, but surely spying had revealed many facts that Arelius would have preferred to keep hidden. "You cannot keep his property from him."

"He considers Portia his property?" Tamil questioned, the comment directed toward Arelius, whose blank face carried a dark overtone.

"Why does Mehrunes want with Portia besides the sphere?" he asked.

"It is not my place to know, and that is all I'm going to tell you, unworthy unbelievers."

"You'll tell us where you scum are staying, or we can drag this out all night!" Tamil threatened, grabbing the man by the front of his tunic, red eyes meeting red as the two glared at one another. A knife appeared in her hand, and the man stared at it, teeth nervously biting his lower lip as he fidgeted.

"I cannot betray my master!" he burst. "Never." Shaking his head as if in a trance, Tamil released him and frowned. He was babbling about the future, and coming days of glory, and how only the faithful would be rewarded.

"What is he talking about?" Tamil asked, but Arelius was more concerned with the man's wild eyes. There was no predicting what the man would do, and as they waited for his ranting to subside, a small knife appeared in the man's hands, making both Blades snap into action.

"Quick!" Arelius ordered, but it was too late, the man had plunged the knife into his own heart, ending his life with a gurgle of choked words as he fell sideways.

"Shit!" Tamil cursed, hands pulling the dagger free and throwing it aside. "I gave my last healing potion to you. Damn it." She tried to stop the flow of blood, but the man was already gone, the warmth leaving his body, and Tamil's hands now covered in red. "Stupid fetcher." She released the body and stood, a disgusted expression plastered on her face. "To think that they're so dedicated to someone who probably doesn't give a shit, and now our source is gone."

"Such a pointless sacrifice," Arelius said, staring at the body by his feet. The man really had been young, and Tamil was right: Mehrunes Dagon wasn't very tender or caring.

"Now may I test my sewer theory, sir?"

"Calm down, Tamil," Arelius ordered. "It is an option now that two of the Dawn are dead. You said that you only remembered seeing two on the docks, so perhaps the greatest dangers have been removed."

"No, there is another," Tamil darkly stated. "And not just because he said so." She was staring off into the dark. "_He's_ still out there." Arelius didn't need to ask for clarification as he retrieved his cloak and tossed it into the cart, a soft meow sounding from inside the closest barrel.

"No more work tonight, Tamil," he ordered. "We'll start with this new turn tomorrow when the sun rises, but for now, we should leave before anyone sees us."

"No clean up?" the elf questioned.

"Leave the bodies as a message," Arelius said to her approval. "Our work here is down." Tamil grumbled, but hopped into the cart and wiped her hands clean of blood as the horse and wagon was turned around.

"Come here, kitty," she called, lifting an orange feline from the barrel beside her, and setting it on her lap. The large, fluffy animal squirmed before settling down, large, green eyes examining Tamil's hands.

"Don't let him loose," Arelius cautioned. "Or my sons will never forgive you. Jasper's a family favorite." The cat purred, completely oblivious to the absolute victory that had been stolen from the woman petting it, but its presence seemed to sooth her. The ride back to the city seemed much longer than usual, and when the tired heroes arrived, warm beds and relieved arms waited for them.


	35. Chapter 35: An Evening Together

Chapter 34: An Evening Together

"Lucretia," Arelius called. "Where is my armor?" His wife turned from where she sat at her vanity, combing her hair back over her shoulders, and the black locks trailing in silky waves down her back. Lips parted into a sly smile as she stared at him from beneath long lashes, Arelius merely leaning back into the stack of pillows behind him. An entire day had passed, and while he'd still been working on plans and listening to Tamil's ideas, Lucretia had insisted that he remain home for the day. She'd even notified the legion commander so that his duties as a palace captain would be suspended for a few days—not that it'd been a difficult task. Arelius had an impeccable record, and although the legion commander didn't know for certain that his most astute employee held other, more obscure responsibilities, the man wasn't stupid.

"I sent your armor out to be repaired," Lucretia confessed. "There were some scratches from your recent battle." She returned to her mirror, but she watched his reflection, and Arelius had to smile as he lounged on the bed in a thin tunic. A tray with a crumb covered plate and an empty silver cup sat on a nearby nightstand, and he appreciated that Lucretia had personally delivered it rather than sending a servant.

"My dear wife," Arelius playfully smiled. "If you were worried that I'd sneak out today, you don't know me as well as you pretend."

"Oh really?" Lucretia smiled, setting her brush aside and standing, blue nightgown swaying about her ankles as she walked. "I know for a fact that you wouldn't sneak out," she said, tapping the tip of his nose with a dainty finger. "But you _would_ announce your departure and dismiss my arguments."

"The thought never even crossed my mind," Arelius replied, looking upward at the commanding woman before him. She'd been just as willful when he'd first met her, but she hadn't been as forward. He'd only become acquainted with that side after their private life grew, and he admired how she balanced an understanding of his duties with personal desires. Sometimes the personal side won out, like now, and he took that as a sign that she forgave him for all the lonely nights and extra troubles of his double life.

"Arelius," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and leaning to rest against his shoulder. "I would prefer that you carry some potions like Tamil does. She makes use of our stores, as should you." Arelius wound one arm around her waist and planted a kiss on the side of her head, the scent of honeysuckle rising from her hair.

"I am rarely injured," he reassured her, and he wisely kept his tone light, for Lucretia hated when she appeared to need support.

"Or do you merely fix yourself up before coming home to spare me the sight?" Lucretia probed, tilting her face up toward his. She was a sharp one, which made Arelius breath deeply of her hair and pull her closer.

"You know too much for your own good," he soothed. "But I didn't hide my wounds this time." Lucretia silently agreed as she ran fingers over the ugly scar now running down the top of his right arm. It would fade, but it would take time. "It gives you an excuse to keep me closer to home for a few days." He could tell that she was smiling as she curled up beside his body, arm over his waist, and lips pressed to his neck.

"In the morning, you should perhaps speak to Portia," she suggested. "She's been withdrawn since I brought her home. Something heavy is on her mind, and I do not feel that it's my place to interfere." Arelius sighed, reaching across Lucretia to snuff out a small row of candles beside the bed. Now only moonlight offered sight, and Arelius lingered on the softly illuminated curves of his wife's hips against his.

"She lost someone close to her," Arelius explained. "Healing takes time, and Portia has always preferred to handle struggles on her own when possible. I only pray that this does no permanent damage. I don't think that it will—not when she's still here and discussing our next move with Tamil—but please keep an eye on her behavior. Sometimes loss can lead to anger before acceptance, and that could be deadlier than if she lost her way again."

"She does not seem angry," Lucretia noted. "I would say that she's...troubled, but it only shows when I catch her alone. Otherwise she's quite focused and bold, as usual. Just this morning, she was shouting at a street hawker for harassing Pyrus, that adorable servant boy that I picked up from the orphanage. She's taken to chatting with the child since he led her to the tomb."

"That's a good sign then," Arelius commented, distracted by Lucretia's fingertips tracing circles on his chest. "Perhaps she is handling this better than I expected. Portia's strength has a way of asserting itself when I don't always expect it."

"You take risks in pushing her, and don't think that I don't see what you're doing," Lucretia said, knowing exactly what her slow, trailing fingers were doing to her husband. "I delivered the sword, after all, and I saw her reaction. You have plans to...mold her." Arelius responded, but he wasn't sure what he said as Lucretia began kissing him. "No more official business tonight," she whispered.

"You're a vixen when you want to be," Arelius lightly laughed.

"And don't claim that you don't like it."

********************

_You need to do this_.

Portia lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, hands resting on her stomach as she contemplated her situation. Tamil had filled her in on all the gory details of the decoy, and how the Mythic Dawn had resorted to suicide rather than surrender, making her again wonder how Mehrunes inspired such loyalty from the cult. The dremora were part of his world, and he ruled them with a might that drew their respect and support, but why would a mortal subject themselves to the daedric prince of destruction? She supposed that some mortals loved fighting and power as much as Mehrunes and the dremora, but the cult wanted the entire world to be washed in Oblivion's power. It made no sense, for even if their contribution was acknowledged, she couldn't imagine many humans proving themselves worthy of holding a place above a dremora—Churls, maybe, for mortals fought them on a regular basis, but that was the bottom of the hierarchy.

_Ignorant bastards_, she thought, referring to the Mythic Dawn. Tamil's story played through her mind, and she frowned when she recalled Arelius returning home with blood across his body. Her natural instincts had been to fear for the man's health, and even though the wounds had been healed, he could have died. _Arelius_ could have died, and the concept was so very difficult to imagine, for Portia had never before seen him injured, and she had yet to see him lose. The idea seemed thoroughly wrong, and yet, she'd been reminded of his mortality last night.

Lucretia had kept a straight face, but her skin had paled, and she'd rushed to her husband's side, completely ignoring everyone else in the room. That had left Portia to examine Tamil's rumpled appearance, which made her regret having been absent to aid them in the fight, and for a few horrible seconds, she'd even lost her composure in considering the implications of their victory. Yes, it was a victory, but if Mehrunes and the Dawn felt like they were being cornered, would they make a desperate strike?

_They could all die_, Portia dejectedly though. Gilthan had already been murdered, and the children might be safely away, but Lucretia and the servants were constantly exposed in a home that the enemy watched like vultures. If Mehrunes decided to launch a surprise attack, there would be deaths, and Portia loathed the idea of Arelius losing his wife because of his hospitality to her. The man was strong, but even she could tell that his wife meant the world to him, and there could be no more innocent blood on her hands for her own sake. To work with Arelius day after day in a future where she might possibly cost him his family was unthinkable, which brought her back to her current position on the bed.

She needed to prevent disaster if she could, and that meant moving before Mehrunes could. So she focused, fully intent on attempting to do what she'd once failed at: spying on Mehrunes Dagon. He had stopped her from investigating his rooms in the capitol before, but she hadn't visited him there since, and so the element of surprise was in her favor. She only needed to seize the opportunity and see if she couldn't figure out where his current base was, for despite warnings to not use the chaos sphere, safety didn't justify endangering her remaining allies. If her true enemy was Cassius, perhaps there would also be evidence of that, and as uncomfortable as that notion was, she sensed that ignoring it could be the death of her.

"Here I go," she whispered, opening chaos and running into the dark. The void no longer confused or disorientated her, for she knew exactly where she was going, and the path was as clear to her as anything in the physical world. In fact, she was moving so freely and so fast, that when her destination materialized, she nearly rammed into the wall before she could slow down.

"Goblin's gall," she gasped, nose inches from the wall. She might have simply gone through the barrier, but with the increasingly physical nature of her travels, she wasn't willing to count on that.

_The window_, her mind screamed, and she stepped backward, not even looking for Mehrunes as she noticed that the room's curtains were drawn shut. It was the same elaborate bedroom that she'd entered before, and she could feel Mehrunes presence at her back as she lunged for the closest window, fingers tearing away material to reveal latched, wooden shutters. She tried to force the latch open, but the harder she pushed, the less progress she seemed to make, and soon the metal was biting into her skin with painful intensity.

"I thought that you might try that again," a low, smugly amused voice commented.

_So much for my plan. _

Portia ceased her frustrated efforts and spun to find Mehrunes sitting in a chair with his legs propped up on a table as he watched her. The room was well lit and rather warm due to the lighted fireplace to his left, and when Portia realized that her opponent only wore breeches, her eyes flitted across his bare chest with its many designs. Thank the gods that she was wearing a tunic and trousers this time, for she felt vulnerable enough after her futile assault on the window. Of course Mehrunes wouldn't have left the windows uncovered after her last attempt to exploit them.

"I take it that you can see and hear me," Portia stated.

"Quite," Mehrunes replied, still reclining. By the Nine, but the man really could be Cassius with his arrogant and casual mannerisms. Portia swallowed, nervous but also annoyed by the man's blatant disregard for the threat that she presented. He always seemed in control, except for those few moments where she'd knocked him off balance, but even then, he recovered with the grace of the prince that he was. He could talk about death and defeat like they meant nothing, and as she stared at his firm chest, red swirls curling across faultless skin, she marveled that he displayed no scars.

_Bastard_. It would have pleased her if his face bore markings from her assualt, but there was no evidence of their fight, as if he'd walked away unscathed. There should have been something, and hell, if Mehrunes wanted to downplay her as an opponent, she would correct his mistake.

"You may have locked the shutters," she began, "but there are ways around that." She guided chaos into her fingertips until the charge made the air beneath her palm crackle, and then she lifted it toward the window, fully intent on blasting the shutters away no matter the cost to herself, and there would be a cost. She could feel the sphere pulling excitedly at her nerves, searing the tips with its sudden draw, but frightening as it was, it was too late to undo her actions.

"I don't think so!" Mehrunes roared, and before Portia could release her attack, he was upon her. She was lifted from the floor as arms wrapped around her from behind, her feet flailing and attempting to kick the warm body pressed to hers as she was hauled backward. "Woman, you don't give me any rest." At least she'd gotten to him, but the shutters remained closed, and she was ensnared in his arms as her heel made contact with something soft.

"Mortal..." Mehrunes growled, threateningly as his grip painfully tightened, pinning her arms ever closer to her torso. If he applied any more pressure, and she was certain that her ribs would crack.

"Put me down!" Portia commanded, memories of her flesh being carved into assaulting her. She could already feel her hip bleeding from his grip, and the idea of a fresh wound made her thrash violently. She could feel his breath on her neck, his muscles firm and unbreakable against her body, his chest rising and falling against her back, and it was overwhelming. Part of her knew that she could never forcefully escape his arms, but surival instincts made her fight like a wild animal.

Panic. Was she panicked? She didn't think so, for there was a stern, sharp edge to her determination that whipped about like the energy she felt inside the sphere—like the energy that she sensed within _him_.

"That was an impressive trick," Mehrunes commented. "But I don't like seeing someone else summoning my realm's power, mortal. How did you manage that?" Portia didn't have an answer and refused to admit that to him as he squeezed her to remind her of who held the power.

"My lord, is there a problem?" a voice suddenly asked through the bedroom door. It was not a voice that Portia recognized, the tone smooth, low, and perfectly level, but she doubted that the speaker was worth asking for help. He probably belonged to Mehrunes.

"No. You may retire, servant," Mehrunes ordered the unseen man. "I've...contained the problem." His words made Portia renew her struggle, and Mehrunes chuckled, his chest vribrating against her shoulder blades. "Do not bother me for the remainder of the night."

"Fetcher!" Portia loudly growled, but she ceased her movements when Mehrunes continued to squeeze her. There was a pause, and then a muted farewell from beyond the door, the two combatants were again left to their own devices as the intruder departed.

"I'm not really here," Portia boldly reminded her captor. "So you can't kill me." _I hope_. Truth be told, she felt rather helpless when pressed to his body as she was, unable to see him, and convinced that she could scream bloody murder and no one would come to her aid. Maybe the neighbors...no. As she recalled, no one but Mehrunes ever seemed capable of seeing or interacting with her when she was in spirit form.

"You feel pretty damn real to me, Sherkyn." The affectionate term made Portia cringe as she felt Mehrunes' lips spread into a smile against her neck, and what a wicked smile it was. "The protection that your spirit used to afford is gone. If your mind dies here, your body will soon follow, just as a spectral can die even though it isn't entirely physical."

"You won't kill me," Portia asserted, breathing heavily as she stared down at the arms around her middle, the limbs easily dwarfing her own. She felt like a scrawny toy in his arms, and he was much too close, for she could feel the small horns on his head touching her hair. It was a cruel reminder of just how deeply she'd sunk into this quagmire of hers.

"How do you know that I won't kill you?" Mehrunes taunted.

"Because if you wanted to kill me, you've had plenty of chances, and my life is valuable so long as you're still looking for your sphere. You know that I have it, but not where. For all your confidence, did it ever occur to you that my abilities might not be directly linked to the sphere?" Mehrunes' mood darkened, and she could sense something terrible coming before he even moved. It was unavoidable when his emotions were a magnetic, and there was a darkly playful element to his current feelings that could not be good for her.

"I'll wait to call that bluff, but in the meantime, if you're going to be difficult..." the prince spoke, cruelty encasing his every word. "I can't let you snoop around my room, can I? But I won't kill you either, so I'll just have to hold onto you." That didn't sound promising, and Portia quickly began struggling as Mehrunes hauled her backwards and dropped into his former seat, taking her down onto his lap with him. What the hell did he think he was doing? Her back remained pressed against his chest, her legs dangling overtop his, and his arms preventing her from hitting him as she nearly choked in surprise.

"You sick, twisted bastard," she hissed, her body angled so that she had to lean against him, and instinct making her summon chaos. She had to get back to her room before this went any further, but before she could continue, his commanding tone cut her off.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, voice so forceful that defiance crumbled in the wake of his will. "You're staying right here and answering my questions." Portia blanched, but then recomposed herself, nerves still shaken until Mehrunes allowed one of his hands to trail down her side to the hip scar. Through the tunic, he still knew exactly where each, ugly line cut across her skin, and as his fingers probed the freshly torn markings, her resolve hardened. He bore no marks of their constant, personal war, but she did, damn him.

"You can ask whatever you wish, but I don't have to answer, Mehrunes," she declared, fists clenching in anger over the arms around her. She wished that her nails were longer and could cut into his flesh, but they were short and dull from swordplay, and she could still remember the momentary disgust that she'd felt after her last hand-to-hand assault on the prince. She'd picked his skin out from beneath her nails, and the feral, wildness of the act had been disquieting. _That_ had been when she'd panicked, the threat of torture igniting something within her that she'd believed dormant once leaving the Blades. Suddenly, she had the urge to turn and see if Mehrunes' ear bore a scar, but moving was impossible.

"Sherkyn," Mehrunes breathed, head resting against the side of hers. His cheek touched hers, and she was grateful that he had chosen to lean against the left side, where he would not feel the earring. Akatosh help her if he touched the chaos sphere, for she'd never leave this room in one piece, but worried as she was, another sensation overrode her concern. The feeling was warm and brushed her skin with a promise of power and security wherever he made direct contact with her, and when she realized the link, she tried to tilt her head away from his.

"Now, now," the prince mocked her. "Is my touch so repulsive, mortal?"

"You tortured me," Portia stated. "How could you _not_ repulse me?"

"A good question to ask yourself," he teased. _What?_

****************

Mehrunes could feel ever inch of Portia's body against his own, and if she wouldn't attempt to kill him, he would have loosened his grip to let hands roam and locate the scars that he knew lay beneath her tunic. He also fought down the urge to chuckle as she stiffened in his arms, his words obviously resonating with her, and well they should.

"You can say what you want," he told her. "But you don't find me repulsive. That's your anger over being manhandled talking." Ah, how he loved bruising her pride. "You respect me, as I respect you, and you _did_ choose to follow me around night after night for no apparent reason. You can blame it on the chaos sphere or your connection to Oblivion—whichever—but it doesn't excuse your interest in me, does it? Someone's a busy reader."

She was still stiff, and Mehrunes pulled his face back to bury his nose in her hair. He liked the way that she smelled, for unlike the perfume that he'd suffered through on many social outings, she carried the subtle scent of violence and blood that was her training yard. Of course, the pull of chaos amplified his senses when it came to her, and beyond that, she even felt like violence as her hands gripped his forearms, callouses rubbing against his skin, and her defined muscles all to apparent from the way that he squeezed her. She would be ready to strike if he gave her an opening.

"You've seen my books?" Portia questioned, and some suspicious element to her tone gave Mehrunes pause. She had relaxed more, and he could tell what she was thinking.

"I've been keeping an eye on you, Sherkyn," he carefully stated. "And I must say that your reputation for defending my realm and dremora is interesting. It was a dremora, after all, that made you scream and beg for death." Her hands tightened on his arms, and he liked the sensation, his face moving back to rest against her cheek. Her skin was warm, energy seemingly jumping from him to her in a way that he'd never before seen, and as old as he was, he'd seen a lot.

"And did you keep an eye on me then too?" Portia demanded, clearly angry, but still controlled as if focused. He didn't like that one bit. She could be too clever for her own good. "I didn't scream for death," she asserted. "Maybe at the beginning, but then I screamed in rage, and your dremora lost his life for it."

Ah, now that was what he liked to hear, but perhaps having her sit on his lap while she said such things was not for the best. She was up to something, and while he didn't want to release her, a small part of him warned that mentioning the dremora had been a mistake, for she was dangerous when her anger was aroused. Perhaps the book comment had also been a mistake, for she was clearly digging for information, but he could not stop the conversation when doing so felt like a concession. He would not lose. A mortal could not win.

"That aside," Mehrunes continued. "Tell me how you summoned such a concentrated amount of chaos. You wouldn't have just blown off the shutters, but probably put a hole in the next building. Amusing, but inconvenient." She shifted against him, and his blood pumped harder, spurred by the fact that he could almost feel her spirit form sinking into him, growing weaker physically, but increasing in power. She was moving, and the chaos sphere on his ear burned without a summons, as if the magic were thinking for itself. It was a force to be reckoned with, for it'd taken him decades to fully master until it became him, but now it writhed like a wild thing, as if responding to an outside force.

"What is.." Portia's voice trailed off, and Mehrunes felt his sphere crackle and gravitate toward her, which elicited a pleasing sensation when close to her skin. The draw made sense given that her veins were infused with the taint of his world, and he knew that his own, personal claim to the woman and aroused state amplified the effect, but this was too much. She'd taken too much chaos into herself, and as he sensed the extent of her exposure, he suddenly became aware of deep shards of shimmering orange at the center of her body. Chaos had leaked into her to a point where he doubted if it would ever be removed, but then why hadn't she succumbed to darkness? Why wasn't she being destroyed?--not that his idea of victory involved seeing her crumble before he laid hands on her.

"You are a puzzle," he stated, seriously concerned. _My puzzle_, and as Portia squirmed, he knew that he liked the feeling of the mortal against him far too much for the dignity of a daedric prince. He wanted her, but the choice to let her leave and when might not be his as his arms began passing through her. Something was waking up her real body, and as she jerked free of him, she spun, accusingly staring at him as if he were responsible for her turmoils. He hadn't forced her to do anything, and he waited for her to curse at him and disappear, but she merely stared with those cold, narrowed eyes, the expression barely masking her discomfort.

"There will be many questions to answer when I finally capture you," he thought aloud, and he would need the aid of dremora mages to figure out this link between him and mortal. He'd always exploited it to his ends, even enjoyed the entertainment it provided, but if this continued after he reclaimed the sphere, would Portia retain some ability to draw from his powers, from his essence? The spheres were to be his alone.

"I'm never going to completely escape this," Portia suddenly stated, sounding dazed. "Even when this ends, win or lose, things will never be the same."

"So you're finally accepting the ramifications of your decisions," Mehrunes mused, pleased. "You only fooled yourself into thinking that you'd come out ahead by stealing. The joke's not so funny now, mortal, and you've only yourself to blame. You should have known that meddling with Oblivion leaves its scars."

"I'm not just talking about scars," she tartly corrected him. "I _know_ what it's like to have scars, but there's something else, a taint deep down that you claim I've nurtured. Maybe I have, but I can't keep it at bay." He saw the conflict behind her eyes—the struggle to comprehend something so much greater and more menacing than anything that she'd ever before experienced, and for whatever reason, she was admitting her inklings to him. Of course, he knew much more than her, and they had talked about this issue before, but here she was, accepting that there might not be an escape route for her. There might not be a light at the end of the tunnel, even if she physically escaped him, which he might have mistaken as defeatism if not for the strength in her voice. She wasn't surrendering, only acknowledging the reality of her situation, and he wasn't sure if that would help or hinder her.

"Humans have been consumed by my realm before," Mehrunes told her. "It chews and spits them out, leaving either a bloody corpse or a puppet, but sometimes...sometimes a mortal survives intact. It's rare, but it happens." His lips curled into a slow smile. "However, there's always a price." He watched her regarding him, and his blood still hummed pleasantly with desire as she finally rose into a confidant, commanding stance.

"And what's the price that I'll pay? My sanity? My life?" she asked, her tone clearly telling him that he'd need to fight for it, but he'd been doing that for weeks. He could hear the unspoken words in her statement: What do you think you can force me to pay? She still wouldn't admit that he had power over her, at least not openly, and the light at the end of the tunnel might not shine as brightly as she hoped, but she still had faith that there was a light.

"The price is yourself," he honestly told her, leaning back and letting his arms hang over the sides of the chair. _And you've already begun paying it_.

"I won't submit." The words were so precise and sharp that he knew that they were chosen with care and directed specifically at him. Ah, what he'd told her as Cassius. He sometimes forgot what he said to her as whom, for he didn't bother hiding his personality traits around her. For the first time, he wondered if she knew more about his alter ego than she betrayed. "Yilt nacormai," she said. _You'll lose_.

And Mehrunes laughed as she vanished, his predatory senses peaking with her words, and in his own language no less! Did she have any idea how her defiance only made her more desirable? The idea would probably repulse her, but if she'd read enough about his realm, than she'd know that such assertive rejections by a female dremora made her a greater catch. Mehrunes asked himself just what the extent of his intentions regarding the woman were, and the more he thought about it, the more he envisoned her bowing before him, chaos in her eyes as a glowing reflection of his mark and world. It would be hours before he could think of anything besides Portia Augustine.


	36. Chapter 36: The Best Blade

I altered the end of the last chapter. Please go read the new content, and enjoy the fresh chapter!

Chapter 35: The Best Blade

The morning was not promising, and if she stayed in bed until a servant came to ask if she wanted food, Portia wouldn't have cared, but relaxing wasn't an option. So she dressed and stood on her balcony, hands pressed against the cool, stone railing as she stared at the overcast sky and ignored the chill air. She could have fetched a cloak, but didn't, opting to remain with bare arms exposed to the air and developing goosebumps as she heard the bedroom door open behind her.

A servant was moving about her room, stripping the bed of bloody sheets, and barely concealing a huff of annoyance. Portia heard the sound and ignored it, knowing that the household staff was not overly fond of her for her strange ways. Back when she'd awake screaming, they'd nearly ran from her in the hallways, worried that she was a little unstable, and who could blame them? With a half-hearted sigh, Portia eyed the dull sun, or what little she could see of it since it was locked away behind dreary clouds. It was time to consider the worst.

_If it's the worst, why am I not more rattled?_ Portia smiled humorlessly and leaned back against the doorway, brown locks keeping some warmth about her neck and shoulders. Last night, she had voiced what she'd been considering for some time, and that was the realization that whatever the sphere was doing to her might be permanent. Keeping or losing the artifact did not mean abating the strange pulses within her, or her bond with Mehrunes, both of which were difficult to imagine being muted. Maybe, once Mehrunes was back in the Oblivion, and assuming that the Blades won, she would remove the sphere, and everything would return to normal, but if it didn't...

Portia ran a hand through her hair to push it back over her head. With everything that had happened since she'd gone into hiding, she barely had time to grieve for Gilthan, and she knew that was part of the morose spells that she'd been undergoing, but it was difficult to formally acknowledge the elf's death. His absence was felt strongly enough as it was, and to place a tombstone would make the entire situation seem...Portia frowned, searching for the right word. Permanent? Ha, as if death ever wasn't permanent, but still, she didn't want to see a marker, and one that few would even notice at that. Tamil, Arelius, herself, and...Mehrunes—they would know and appreciate the elf's sacrifice.

As if to pull her from her thoughts, or perhaps triggered by her emotions, a small jolt from the sphere reminded her of the pressing problem resting on her shoulders. It was troubling, but not as much as she'd expected given her comments last night. She supposed that she'd grown used to the idea of being linked with the sphere over time, and so the shock simply wasn't there.

_"You're finally accepting..." _

She recalled those words and disagreed, for she'd accepted the pain of this job when she'd taken the scroll from Arelius—when she'd allowed herself to be pulled back into the Blades. Acceptance wasn't an issue, but truly understanding the intricacies of the magic affecting her was something else entirely. She'd suspected, and had perhaps unconsciously known, that the sphere had turned her into a different kind of player in this game, pulling her in deeper with each passing day. It seemed inevitable, for whatever else this game was, it was personal. Maybe it wasn't for Arelius and Tamil, but for Mehrunes, it had been since the beginning, and she recognized her own motivations in wanting to win.

"How could I not have noticed?" she asked herself.

_"The price is yourself."_

Personal indeed, but she'd been blind to not realize the extent of that until last night. She was anything but professional detached—not that she cared—but what of this price? Mehrunes' voice had been so thick, and his meaning so vague. Oh, she knew that he wanted to claim her and do gods knew what to her in retribution for her defiance, but there was more to it than that, for he treated her as an equal with one breathe before chastising her like a weakling with the next. This price...was it also the toll that the sphere was taking? When had she come to full awareness of its energy resonating with something deep within her?

_If only Gilthan were here to answer questions. _

"Why think so much about this now?" she self-depreciatingly mocked herself, sounding like the prince as she did so. The comparison irked her as she pinpointed the beginning of her vocalized knowledge, and it had begun with a simple inquiry into why Mehrunes didn't repulse her.

_The bastard was just trying to ruffle your feathers_, she told herself, but there shouldn't have been so much to ruffle. Gods above, but she certainly didn't find him repulsive, and perhaps she never had. When she'd first seen him, his power and command had overwhelmed and terrified her, and last night, when he'd been lounging, she'd thought that he cut quite an attractive image—the epitome of regal danger, which made sense since he was a prince, but nothing that she'd read had ever made Mehrunes Dagon sound attractive. Powerful? Yes. Vengeful, arrogant, blunt, ambitious? A hundred times yes, but not playfully cruel or attractive.

_Don't think about that, AND you failed in your mission._

Portia walked inside and toward her bedroom door, the servant long gone. She reached for the door, and as she did so, she noticed a splash of color that stood out among the gray, stone walls. A painting hung beside her bed, and while she'd never before paid it much attention, she now stared long and hard at its picturesque landscape of trees and fields. It was common for aristocrats to decorate their homes with artwork, and the room that she'd visited last night had been no exception, but the image that she'd only briefly noticed behind Mehrunes' chair had been unusual.

Portia raked her memory for details of that painting, for she hadn't thought much of it at the time, but it had been jarring, which was the only reason that she'd noted it, however fleetingly. It was, after all, difficult to pay attention to art when a daedric prince, and a shirtless one at that, was sitting a few feet from you. Still, Portia mentally conjured the image, which had also been a landscape, but the shades had been darker, and the terrain mountainous with dark rifts and a storm blowing in from the horizon. She'd never seen its like before...

"Portia!" a chipper voice interrupted, and she opened her door to find a servant boy standing there with a ridiculously large grin.

"Hello, Pyrus," she greeted, relieved to have such an innocent visitor. The boy had taken every opportunity to serve her since her flight, for he'd apparently taken it into his head that she was some sort of heroine, escaping her enemies in the dead of night. She supposed that it was the stuff of dreams to a young boy, and if only reality had the same, happily-ever-after ending as a children's tale.

"I brought you the bandages that you wanted." The boy thrust a bundle of material into her hands, and Portia laughed at his eager face.

"Thank you very much. I hope that the other servants didn't give you a hard time."

"Oh, _well_," he placed hands on his hips. "They asked if the bandages were for you, and I told them that it was none of their business. Sometimes they say mean things about you." Portia patted his shoulder and placed the bandages inside her room before closing the doors for what would likely be the entire day.

"They say that you bring trouble here," the boy continued, keeping pace with her as she walked toward Arelius's study. "But I told them that it's not your fault. That's what Lady Lucretia told me. She says that you are very brave, and ordered the servants to show respect. But..." The boy was frowning at the floor as he walked.

"But what?" Portia asked, marveling at how easily children were taken into confidence. She wondered if she'd ever been so trusting.

"You see," Pyrus pouted. "My mother says that I should be careful—that things aren't safe here, and so I need to always be ready to run, but shouldn't I fight?" He seemed so confused, and Portia stared at him, blinking in consideration of his naive idealism.

"Sometimes it's better not to fight," she decided to tell him. "There are people who care about you, and if you got hurt, it would be very hard on them." The boy nodded, but still frowned.

"Then how can I be your protector?" Portia choked back a laugh, feeling remarkably childish in having this conversation.

"You _are_ my protector," she assured, knowing that Lucretia had dubbed the boy as such, but only in jest. The poor child had apparently taken the notion to heart. "You can warn me if danger is coming, and that will do more good than fighting, but you need to have sharp ears. Pay attention, and stay close to home incase you're needed." The boy beamed, small chest puffing outward with self-importance.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Portia, are you recruiting for me?" an amused voice asked, and Portia turned to find Arelius warmly regarding the scene. He'd probably heard most of the exchange.

"I was just getting back to work, sir!" Pyrus quickly blurted.

"Take your time," Arelius smiled. "And remember that you've important duties."

"Yes, sir!" The boy ran off, and Arelius walked closer, Portia's vision automatically moving toward his exposed forearm, where a faint scar remained. "Yes, even the great Arelius bleeds," he stated, having seen the direction of her gaze.

"I suppose," Portia agreed, now looking to where the boy had been.

"He would make a fine Blade," Arelius quietly noted.

"He's too young and idealistic," Portia argued.

"Others would have said the same of you," came the quick reply, but he meant it well, so she didn't pursue the argument. "I like recruiting the ones that aren't yet hardened. They're easier to train in conduct and combat with their eagerness and optimistic sense of purpose. Experience does the rest—teaching them to balance ideals and reality."

"Not everyone lives to learn from experience."

"No, but that's why the lighter assignments come first."

"Then they get the jobs that turn them into Portias and Tamils," Portia sarcastically replied.

"It's a process," Arelius unrepentantly stated. "And that aside, the boy might not want to be a mere servant forever." Portia knew that Arelius was only half-joking with that comment, and she turned to examine his placid features, steady green eyes, and dark hair. She was sure that she hadn't been the only female recruit to develop a crush on the man, which might explain why he'd never made an issue out of her adoration. She wondered if he'd ever been jaded in spite of his seemingly content and devoted behavior toward the empire.

"Shall we discuss more important matters?" Arelius asked, but not meaning it as a question. "Tamil will be a while yet. It's only eight in the morning." Portia joined the man in his private quarters, and noted that Lucretia had placed a very large tray of food on the man's desk. There was a note tucked beneath a peach, and he briefly smiled at it before sliding it into his desk.

"Help yourself," he motioned, but Portia politely declined, being much more interested in what needed to be discussed, or rather, what she wanted to discuss. She'd avoided Arelius since he'd delivered the news of Gilthan's death, but that was only because he reminded her of that night, when he'd spoken as one tactfully and professionally detached in delivering death notices. The lack of informal emotions had not sat well with her, even though his sympathies were sincere, for he might be able to quickly resign himself to loss, but she'd needed fire to temper her pain, and another had provided that.

Arelius began buttering a slice of bread, but remained quiet, as if he knew that she had something to say, or maybe he was simply giving her the opportunity to talk if she needed it. Either way, she sighed at his ability to ask for what he wanted without speaking. It was an art that she wished to develop with equal skill, but had yet to accomplish.

"I broke one of your first rules, sir," she confessed. "I let the job get too personal."

"Is it affecting your efficiency?" he questioned.

"No, but it puts your family in greater danger." Arelius leaned forward, hands folded across his desk as his thoughtful gaze met hers.

"This job was always more personal than usual, Portia. It was rather unavoidable given the damage that you've suffered, and I have asked a lot of you, but I must also ask this: are you concerned because of your involvement or someone else's?" Portia held his gaze, and noted that he was using his captain's face—the serious face that managed to be both concerned and analytical at the same time.

"Mehrunes won't just settle for the chaos sphere's return," she deadpanned. "I think he's had more elaborate plans since the beginning." She lifted her chin and frowned. "Why do you suspect the same?"

"The man who killed himself said that Mehrunes wanted you alive," Arelius admitted. "Portia, if this had not become personal for you, I would have been surprised. You lack the callous indifference to remain detached in circumstance like this, and that is not an insult." Portia nodded, secretly pleased that he was not upset with her. She'd seen him tear into other Blades for letting their emotions get the best of them. _But they acted like fools_, she reminded herself. Apparently Arelius trusted her to continue doing her job well, and she wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse, but she opted for the former.

"You were not concerned with this before," Arelius pointed out.

"I've seen and heard more since then. _He's_ making it as personal as it can get," she softly replied, wanting to share the extent of the sphere's influence, but unsure if that was wise. Arelius was protecting her from the mages, and she didn't want him to question that decision due to her own problems. "Have you ever had an enemy like that, sir?" she asked, suddenly keen on hearing advice from a man who was far more experienced in this than her. He would not have been her first choice, but he could say the right thing when needed. For a moment, she felt like a recruit again, sitting in his office and politely requesting information or reporting on a job, and he'd give her that pleased look when she completed a task or sought more.

"Yes," he told her. "And it can make a job easier or harder. You must understand that everyone has jobs that become personal. That's not the question. The question is whether or not you allow personal vendettas to overshadow the larger goal. Anger can be a terrible factor in any battle. It makes you rash and stupid—more likely to fail. If you're angry Portia, you need to let it go."

"You mean about Gilthan?" There, the topic had finally been broached. "No, I'm not angry," she said. "Not anymore, and I can't make his sacrifice worthwhile by throwing in the towel. You've no reason to fear me running off again. I suppose you could say that this has become so personal that I can't walk away from it." There was no bitterness, only an honest statement that would make her boss proud, and she knew it. By the nine, it even sounded like something that he might say, and he must have been thinking that same thing, for there was a subtle, pleased cast to his face that could only be read through years of experience.

"Have you thought about declaring his death?" he asked her. "He deserves a burial of recognition." Portia sighed, feeling weary at the thought as she pulled a ring from her pocket and cradled it in her palm. Some part of her told her to wear it, but she couldn't, at least not yet. Gilthan had died, and instead of trying to tear Mehrunes to pieces for it, she'd found strength in the prince's words. The very idea sounded insulting to Gilthan's memory, and so she resisted the uncanny urge to wear the symbol of his once bouncy and chaotic life.

"I've no money, sir," Portia stated.

"I will pay for the burial." Her head shot up, and she wondered if he was doing this out of duty, goodwill, or to seal the possible rift that the elf's death had caused between them. After all, Arelius did not realize where he stood with her, for she'd been angry with him before. "Don't read into this more than you need to," he cautioned her. "I have always looked after those who work beneath me, and if Gilthan had left behind family, I would be responsible to look after their well being in his memory." True. Portia recalled how Arelius had found a new, less expensive home for the wife and child of the man whom she'd slain.

"Thank you, sir," she sincerely spoke, putting the ring away.

"And Portia," he added. "Anger at yourself can be as destructive as anger at another." She smiled, wondering how he would respond if he knew who had countered her on that note.

"I have my doubts, but...I know, sir. Sometimes I ignore your lessons, but I never really forget them."

"I expect as much from you," he stated. _Of course you do_. "And there is another thing that I'd like to discuss before we are interrupted." He lifted a small scroll from the side of his desk and passed it to her, Portia taking the parchment but not recognizing the wax seal on it. "It arrived this morning, and is another reason that I suspected how personal this mission was becoming for you."

That did nothing to assure Portia as she broke the seal and unrolled the scroll, eyes quickly reading through the short letter.

_Dear Lady,_

_I have been unable to contact you for several days now, but I was told that you'd recently reappeared. I'm pleased that you have returned from your unexpected disappearance, and I'm sure that I'll see you soon. _

_Cassius_

"Wonderful," she breathed. "I take it that you know who it's from."

"The seal is unfamiliar, but I can guess. Has being assigned to him been a problem? You're capable of handling dangerous tasks, but I did not foresee his interest in you, and you rarely speak about your encounters with him. It's none of my business, but if it will affect our goals, I demand to be told. The man obviously keeps a close eye on you since your return has not been made public yet." Portia handed him the scroll, not caring whether he read its contents or not, and collected her thoughts.

"We all know that Cassius isn't what he seems," she carefully spoke. "And he's very dangerous, but nothing that I can't handle. The goal was for me to get closer anyway," she pointedly reminded Arelius. "And it's been beneficial." He could not deny it, for Tamil might have uncovered Cassius's lies, but Portia knew the man well enough to keep him busy—that, and her reports on Cassius's knowledge of Oblivion and Mehrunes were central to them linking him to the Mythic Dawn. As for other suspicions...

"That's what I was hoping to hear," Arelius nodded. "Because we have two options: you can either go public again, or you can remain in hiding, for I can make use of you either way."

"But you're hoping that I'll stay public," Portia mused knowingly.

"I'd hate for my best Blade to back down from a fight," Arelius smiled. "But if you enjoyed your stay in the tomb..."

"No," Portia blurted, a firm set to her face. "I will not hide now that the mages can't touch me. _He'll_ see it, Arelius." _He's already seen it_. She didn't know which 'he' she was referring to, and neither did Arelius, but the comment stood for itself, and when the captain looked at her again, his eyes were filled with an appreciative respect that made Portia sit straighter in her chair.

"Good," Arelius spoke. "Because Tamil thinks that our local killer is getting around through the sewers beneath Horace's house, and we're going to make our move this week."

"Do you need me for the job?" Portia readily asked.

"No," he said. "There will be no distraction, because they'll be expecting that after Tamil's last visit and the deaths. No, we're using a different approach." _What_? "All I need from you is a sharp memory. If you can recall anything of what Mehrunes' chambers looked like, that will be very useful, and in the meantime, don't use the sphere. The mages don't need a reason to attempt anything rash."

"They're still out there," Portia darkly commented.

"I wouldn't dismiss the possibility—not after the slap in the face that I gave Traven. Arch-mages are an arrogant species by trade."

"Shall I return to work than?" Portia furthered questioned.

"Not yet. Collect your equipment and keep close to the house. Once we confront the Dawn in their own headquarters, even if it's not violent, there might be a backlash." So he already assumed that Horace's manor was the location of their true enemies. Portia didn't disagree as she wondered what Arelius was planning, but whatever it was, she didn't need to be told twice to ready herself for dark hours.

*******************

Why couldn't she just kidnap the bitch and be done with it? An Altmer with long, dark hair passed by Arelius's home with a jaw clenched in annoyance. It was interesting that Traven was desperate enough to grab the girl that he'd turned to her for assistance, and even better that he was unknowingly pitting himself against forces much darker than himself, but she didn't need this hassle. She especially didn't need a self-righteous mage blackmailing her, and that was what her situation amounted to.

The disgrace! Blackmailed twice in as many weeks. She had a mind to kill all of the bastards for so blatantly tampering with her affairs, but to Oblivion with that. Revenge required patience, and that she could manage. In the meantime, Traven's offer wasn't entirely objectionable, and if it had been, no amount of threats of imprisonment and expulsion would persuade her to work with that idiot. So she would wait and ensnare this woman when she had a chance, and he'd be indebted, which delighted her in that way that little could. She hadn't been this privately pleased since she'd gotten Traven into her bed. Of course, he'd been much younger and less dogmatic back then, but it still irked the man to know that he'd been intimate with one of her kind.

Oh, the stupid, arrogant mage.

"You'll get yours, Traven," she softly hummed to herself, elegant lips pulling into a sneer. She passed the house unnoticed, and it would remain that way until she wished it otherwise.


	37. Chapter 37: Rematch

Chapter 36: Rematch

The fools had gotten themselves killed, and while Mehrunes had expected them to last a bit longer, he wasn't particularly concerned. Ruined Cloak was far more efficient than his now dead assistants, and so long as he remained, the prince's case was in good hands. The dark killer himself wasn't upset by the loss of his men, for he'd told them to investigate the rumors and activities around Arelius, and it would only have been a problem had Portia successfully left the city, but she hadn't. In a craftily executed ploy, the Blades had tricked and killed two men, and for the first time, Mehrunes considered that Portia's allies might be more dangerous than he'd anticipated. Sure, he'd been careful thus far, but there was no doubt that the Blades were stepping up their game. Perhaps they were closer to acting than Ruined Cloak had warned.

Again, the prince considered launching an attack, for it would soon be time to leave, and with Portia avoiding Cassius, he was bored. She'd have received his letter by now, and the thought made him smile as he wandered the city streets. He was restless tonight, and staying at home was out of the question when he hadn't fought anyone in days. True, he'd provoked a duel on the streets a few days ago, but his opponent had hardly been worth the time. The guards must have been absolutely thrilled to find the bloody corpse outside of the bar, and the only downside to that night had been Horace's concern over the blatant violence. He didn't want guards at his door, especially since Ruined Cloak claimed that someone had infiltrated the house.

_"The dark elf has to go, my lord. She is the most dangerous threat to us."_

Perhaps, and Mehrunes was inclined to indulge his servant, but not right now. For the moment, he'd merely sent the killer on a short mission to remind the Blades of whom they were dealing with, and with a grunt of annoyance, Mehrunes paused beneath a streetlight to stare at the palace walls. The white stones looked like bleached bones in the night, which wasn't a displeasing comparison, but he would prefer blackened lava rock any day. He'd inhabited this realm for weeks with little concern for his own world, but now he pictured his palace rising above the Deadlands, and on impulse, he decided to infiltrate this gleaming beacon of human hope.

The palace was well guarded, but Mehrunes had once seen Portia enter the grounds unrestricted and undetected, for there was a small pathway through the training yards that was rarely monitored. With the high walls blocking him from view, he retraced her footsteps, easily breaking the lock on a wooden gate and passing beneath a small archway into a columned corridor. The right side opened onto a grassy yard, and he knew that there were a series of such rooms, all interconnected by hallways, storage, and baths. Now _that_ rekindled fond memories.

With a grin, Mehrunes kept to the shadows as he strolled, his sword at his side, and intuition telling him that he wanted something here. Truly, there was no reason to be here, but the location suited him, and he remembered fighting Portia on this yard. Perhaps that was what drew him to this place, and the quiet reminded him of the inner rooms of his palace. When he was in a particularly foul mood, he'd banish all the guards, and in the following silence, he'd sit and brood, maybe moving his mind from one daedric shrine to the next as he sat atop his throne, listening to his followers and sometimes lashing out for his own amusement. Speaking through the mortal followers that gathered at his shrines reflected the position that he'd held in this world for many decades: that of a disembodied voice.

_Creak_.

Mehrunes paused and looked toward a small, side room, for the door had suddenly swung outward, and while no further sound followed, he knew that someone was inside. The darkness beyond the door was nearly complete, so he could not spy on his unexpected company, but slowly a figure emerged, and his mind raced in anticipation. It was female with a bag of what had to be equipment over her shoulder, for he could hear the jingle of metal as she moved, but he didn't care what she carried when he could almost taste the woman's scent on the air.

Mehrunes didn't even stop to consider his actions as he stepped onto the yard, completely foregoing the element of surprise as his pulse quickened. What good fortune, or rather, how fortunate that he'd been guided here. The idea of being unconsciously guided would normally have sent him into a rage that would burn through his entire body before being brought to heel, but he'd forgo anger for the time being. This was too good to spoil, and a quick scan of the female body obscured by the corridor's shadows reaffirmed the thought.

"What...what are you doing here?" a feminine voice asked, clearly surprised. She'd frozen, caught off guard, and Mehrunes could imagine her hand flicking toward her waist where a sword hung_, _but he wasn't fooled. The slight trepidation in Portia's mannerism did not escape him, and it made him wish to throw her to the ground and lord his power over her, but he did not. He wasn't the prince of destruction right now, but Cassius, which had advantages of its own.

"I could ask you the same thing," he told her.

"My business is my own," she quickly responded.

"Likewise, my lady." He began walking closer, grass softening his otherwise forceful stride, and Portia merely setting her load aside. For one so ready to think the worst of him, she could have yelled for a guard, but no, that wasn't her style. It wasn't his either, and as he looked over her body, he wished to remind her of how he'd held her.

"What do you want, Cassius?" Portia asked.

"Where do I begin?" He stopped, not missing the movement of her hand to her sword's hilt. Ah yes, what _did_ he want? "I've been waiting for a rematch. Perhaps you'll be lucky this time."

"It's late," Portia shrugged. "And I am not keen on being caught with an unauthorized intruder in the middle of the night. You'll have to wait until later."

"Pathetic excuse, Sherkyn. I'm giving you a chance that you might not get again."

************

Portia wanted to fight. She stood there, hand touching metal, and thought of Gilthan. Mehrunes had promised her a chance to fight in retribution, but when would he appear, and if she could fight him in this capacity, did she even have a prayer of winning? Cassius might be Mehrunes, but then again, he might not be. This arrogant man before her was a match personality wise, but he was standing there and giving her a choice, which seemed very unlike the prince. Perhaps she was wrong in her wayward thoughts, but either way, Cassius was here, offering to duel and allow her a form of venting. She had wanted to beat him before, and if she could do so now, she could show him just who he was harassing. Verbally besting him or denying his advances was on thing, but seeing him hit the dirt was something greater.

And oh, how she wanted him to admit that she could be more than his equal. The urge had long been there, and after days of hiding while Mehrunes mocked her, this confrontation almost seemed like a blessing. If only he knew what chance he was giving her, and as she looked into his seemingly knowing eyes, she made a decision. He had to be part of the Mythic Dawn, and for that, she could draw his blood.

"Round two is it then," she spoke, drawing her sword. Cassius said nothing, but shot her a wicked smile that showed his fanged teeth as he took his own weapon in hand. Portia stepped onto the yard, fingers gripping the sword until her knuckles ached, and she slipped into a fighting stance, heart steadily pumping as she realized just how dangerous this was. There would be no interruption this time.

_Good_, part of her whispered.

It didn't matter if Cassius was Mehrunes or not as the man initiated the first attack. All Portia knew was that he wasn't going to win this time, and as his heavier sword collided with hers, she felt the blow down her entire arm, using both hands to brace her blade against the attach. Yes, this might kill her, but she wouldn't let him stand victorious over her this time.

********************

The mortal was holding her own, and Mehrunes could see how determined she was when he smashed his sword against hers in a downward slash. Their blades were locked together, the prince throwing his weight into the attack and attempting to force Portia backwards. Her feet dug into the earth, and she angled her body forward, trying to counterbalance his force, and their faces were close, glaring at one another from behind crossed weapons. He could see the sweat forming on her forehead, and feel the wrath of her emotions as more than just their blades clashed. Again, he saw a flash of orange in her eyes, and he admitted that they were more evenly matched this time around.

Just when he felt her strength about to cave, her knees lowering ever so slightly, and she threw her weight sideways, forcing his sword away from her, but he did not lose his grip. What a stupid mortal if she thought that it would be so easy, but once his blade was deflected from her body, she whipped her sword sideways, the tip whistling through the air mere inches from his face. If he hadn't yanked his body backward, he'd be feeling a sting right now, or maybe worse.

_So she wants to play rough._

Mehrunes didn't hesitate in renewing his offensive, his aggressiveness bearing down on Portia so that she could not use speed against him. His attacks were brutally forceful, and there were many that she barely managed to block or dodge, her breath coming in shorter gasps as she parried another thrust. Then she did the unexpected; she began giving more ground, moving backward and making weaker attempts to stop him as he felt her arm shake with his latest strike.

_No one beats a prince_, he smugly thought, and the promise of blood made him move faster, exhausting her fatigue as she stumbled, and he took full advantage of her mistake. He swung hard, wanting to disarm her once and for all as her footing failed her, but what was that? In the moonlight, he caught her grim smile, but it was too late to undo his assault, and with shocked realization, he watched her safely duck beneath his sword, the blade continuing its path to sink into the thick wood of a practice dummy.

"Damn," he hissed, working to yank the blade free, but the delay was long enough to cost him. Portia's sword was already flying toward his gut, and he sucked in his breath in anticipation of a wound that never came. There was pressure, but no pain as he stared in disbelief at the sword tip resting against his tunic.

"You lose, Cassius."

_No. _

He watched with satisfaction as Portia's eyes widened in alarm, for he'd abandoned his sword to grab her blade with his bare hands. The razor edge bit into his skin, but only enough to make a shallow, clean cut as he chuckled, metal firmly locked between his palms.

"Not quite," he told her, and ignoring the conventional rules of a duel—rules that she'd failed to specify this time around—he ripped the sword from her grasp, cheating by sending a small flare of heat down its length to loosen her hold. He threw the weapon aside and glared down at where she sat on the grass, a few drops of blood sliding down his fingertips and livening his senses. It had been a long time since someone had drawn his blood, and with a twisted smile, he reached for Portia's throat, perfectly willing to force her to admit her defeat.

He never saw her foot coming until it was too late.

*****************

"Bitch!" Portia's foot collided with Cassius's groan, and the man doubled over in pain. With a sharp intake of breath, his eyes burned with a wild, uncontrollable rage that made her synapses fire in a dizzying onslaught of sensations, and for a moment, she wasn't sure if the anger was his or hers. She'd never seen him so stoked for violence, and with his feral side manifesting itself more strongly with each passing second, she knew that this fight was more than a duel. He wasn't going to allow himself to lose, no matter the cost, and that was the most dangerous kind of enemy.

She took her chance as he braced himself against his thighs, exploiting his vulnerable state to punch him in the face, which snapped his head to the side as an unearthly growl emanated from his throat. By the nine, she was in deep shit, but if he thought that she'd lay down and let him win after his dirty trick, he was wrong. Whether she was forced to seriously injure him or not, she didn't think that running was an option. The man always found her, and running, while a very attractive idea as his smoldering eyes snapped back to her, would not save her.

"_You lose_," she reiterated, and the sneer that came over Cassius's face looked nothing like a mortal man's as he lunged for her. She felt rather than saw his fist collide with the hand that she raised in self-defense, and the resulting pain almost made tears spring to her eyes as she wondered if he could break bones with a single punch. Gods, it hurt, but she avoided the next swing and aimed a kick at him. She very nearly panicked when he grabbed her leg and twisted, whirling her around and sending her to the ground face first. He could have been inside of her head as she sensed his triumphant glee, making her unsure if the scathing bellow of laughter that she heard was real or imaginary.

_Will he kill me?_

Another growl came from above her as a foot pressed into the space between her shoulder blades, and she considered that he might be far gone enough to do something drastic.

"What did you say?" he demanded. "Something about me losing?" She'd never imagined that his voice could go so low or threatening. How could she have found this man attractive, even to the point of thinking about kissing him? Suddenly her teeth ground together in anger, and the hand that wasn't pinned beneath her tore a hidden dirk free from her belt.

"I said that you lose." She didn't need to see as she awkwardly angled the blade over her back and into the thick leather of Cassius's boots. The tip dug into flesh, causing the man ripped his foot free with a yell of anger that seemed to shake the very foundations of the building, and Portia had never thought that she'd come so close to death in her life. Maybe once before, but this had taken it to a whole new level, and her enemy wasn't done yet. His hand reached for her, and she attacked without thinking, the knife burying itself in Cassius's shoulder, and causing him to fall backward.

He lay there on the grass, hands ripping the blade free and discarding it as he pressed palms to the wound, determined to stop the flow of blood. He looked mortal and vulnerable, eyes flashing angrily, but the animalistic fervor gone as he watched her. There was a lot of blood, and Portia frowned, disliking the carnage, but feeling it necessary to bring the man to his senses. She'd been scared into fighting so fiercely, but now she watched the red stain on Cassius's shoulder grow, and wondered at what she'd done. When had a duel escalated into such violence?

"I guess you're right," Cassius said, voice strained with pain. Gods, but how could she think him Mehrunes Dagon when he was laying prostrate like that? She hated blood—hated it! At least it wasn't literally on her hands this time, and she moved closer, watching Cassius's dark eyes that looked like voids even in the darkness. She couldn't see exactly where'd she hit him, and perhaps she'd done more damage than expected. What if...No, she couldn't be soft on this man, whoever he was.

"Say it," she told him.

"No," he firmly denied, dark hair falling across his face as he breathed heavily. Gods, but there was a lot of blood. "What will you do now, Sherkyn?" he taunted her. "You've struck true, and if you wanted to kill me, you could. Victory demands blood."

"No," she argued. "Killing an opponent has never been my end goal. I promised myself that I would shed as little blood as possible the day that I murdered my comrade, and I won't go back on that vow. You forced my hand, Cassius." He chuckled, but it was weak, and Portia reluctantly knelt at his side, noting how his blood was little different from her own. This man was mortal, like her, and he felt pain, the idea resounding within her as her own shoulder throbbed with a subdued ache that worried her. The blood _had_ to prove how utterly human Cassius was.

Maybe he wouldn't have gone as far as feared, meaning that she'd overreacted, and while the thought seemed ridiculous, she realized that she'd struck him down in more than fear. She'd wanted to cause pain and release the dark swirls of doubt within her, but to pin it on a man who might not be the rightful recipient of her frustrations...

"Admiring your handiwork?" Cassius asked. "You're a lot more vicious than you act."

"Sometimes," Portia admitted, removing his hands from the wound and widening the tear in his shirt to examine the damage. She despised the slick feel of his blood against her fingers as she stared at the hole in his flesh, which wasn't serious, but it would take time to heal. "Can you walk?" she asked, glancing at his injured foot.

"What are you up to, woman?" he suspiciously growled, and she closed her eyes against the aching resemblance of those words to those of another man. He thought that she lived to fight as he did, but Cassius was wrong, for she was nothing like him just because she refused to give in. This handsome liar would assume nothing about her without her consent, and the resentment of being expected to kill like her enemies made her flinch. She could and would kill, but not like this. _Not like this. Not this man who's waiting for me to prove him correct, who's already defeated. It'd be pointless. _

"Wrap your arm around my shoulder," she instructed while putting her own arms around his waist to help lift him from the ground. He hesitated, and Portia lost her patience. Even when he was defeated, he had to put himself in the controlling situation. "_Now_, Cassius," she ordered. "I don't know any restoration magic, and even though I'm tempted to leave you here, I won't."

"You're asking me to trust someone who just stabbed me," Cassius pointed out.

"I'm not going to do anything to you," Portia promised, her conviction making his head snap toward her, peering up through dark hair to scan her face for falsehood. He didn't believe her, and she knew it. "If you die, you can't admit that I won. And I _did_ win, Cassius." She expected anger, but what she got was a very blank, serious stare that made her look away as she helped him to his feet. He leaned heavily against her, but she could tell that he was fighting the necessity.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're enjoying having this power over me," the man stated as they began moving toward the yard's walkway. Portia chose not to respond, for to admit that she was enjoying being his means of support would make her sound like him, and she would not give him a reason to gloat and reverse their roles. "Hmmm. No answer, Sherkyn?" He suddenly pushed her away, and Portia was so startled that she easily released her grip and stood to watch Cassius rigidly take a few steps on his own, several bloody footprints left behind him.

"Too proud to admit that you need help?" she questioned. The man had amazing tenacity to be walking on his own in a weakened state.

"You will hold your tongue," he harshly ordered. "You may have won, but I do _not_ need your help." _He is too proud, the idiot._ Portia walked to his side and stared at him, curious as he held a hand to his wound and pulled it away, marveling at his own blood. "It's been a long time since..." He suddenly turned his endless eyes on her, and she steeled herself for whatever barb was about to be sent her way, but none came. His expression was a mixture of pain, surprise, and admiration, but Portia did not understand why his own wounds fascinated him so.

"Fine," she suddenly said, and with vindictiveness that she did not feel, she left him.

***********************

She was going to leave him to his own survival, and Mehrunes decided then and there that Portia was a much more hardened opponent than the touching of his wounds had suggested. What kind of crazy fetcher helped treat an enemy anyway? He grunted and leaned against a pillar, despising his current weakness as he listened to her footsteps fade, leaving him alone to bleed. If he'd been in her shoes, he'd have killed the wounded opponent rather than leave him alive to possibly seek revenge, but she wasn't him. She was vengeful and merciful at the same time—a paradox that Azura would appreciate, and if he'd wanted to subdue her before, the desire was barely contained as he now slid down the pillar.

She'd wounded him—drawn the blood of a prince and then rubbed the victory in his face by offering to help him. Damn that mortal woman! Still, he grimly smiled and stared at his bloody hands, impressed by her little stunt, and acknowledging that if she could do this to him, then she could hold her own against the Valkynaz. His human was certainly a spitfire, but did she have any idea that she'd just tightened her chains? A prince could not let an attacker go about as a bold victor, and for the blood that she'd spilled, he would remind her of the blood debt that was always about her shoulders. When his strength was back, he'd make that scar bleed, but he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to do more: watch her bleed or press her into the wall and whisper dark praise for her boldness.

She was worthy of his attentions, he admitted, now sitting on the ground. His human form was weaker and didn't heal as quickly, but the bleeding had already almost stopped, and the pain was lessening. In some ways, it was refreshing to feel the sting of competition, but he hissed in disapproval as he shifted his injured leg across the ground. The prince of destruction was momentarily disabled, and he had to get out of the palace before someone saw him. Then again, the thought of either Horace or Ruined Cloak seeing him like this made his fingers curl into fists.

"Cassius." That voice. Mehrunes looked up to meet Portia's softened features. The aggression was gone, but not the anger as she tossed a healing potion onto his lap. "You don't deserve that."

"Then why give it to me?" Portia sighed, the sound barely audible as Mehrunes uncorked the potion and downed it in one gulp.

"I said that I wouldn't leave you here," she reaffirmed. "You act like we're enemies and should be out for bloodshed, but you only asked for a duel, Cassius." That's right, he inwardly scoffed. Cassius and Portia weren't necessarily enemies, but she had seemingly forgotten that only a short while ago. Mehrunes stood, feeling the potion mend his shoulder and foot, and rolling the sore muscles to work out the kinks. He could kill her right now if he chose.

"Are we enemies?" Portia asked.

"I've no reason to call you an enemy," Mehrunes lied, remembering himself, but Portia wasn't an enemy, or not entirely. She was someone to hunt, claim, and torment, but not one destined for the palace prison. No, her prison would be built of something more complex than metal and stone. "Perhaps we are opponents, but I do not wish to see you die, Portia. You're far too..."

"Not enemies then," she mused. "Or enemies of a different kind. Your weapon, sir." She held his sword out to him pommel first, and he stared at her, wondering if she realized that he could easily take vengeance on her now. As he grabbed the weapon, he saw the hard edge to her eyes, and it was one that was anything but naive. She knew the risk, and she was testing to see if he meant his words. Ah, clever woman. She was testing more than his goodwill tonight.

"I hate to lose," he stated. "I won't let this go."

"You've made that clear from the beginning." Did she know who he was? He had to seriously consider the situation as he stepped closer to her, wanting nothing more than to smear his bloody fingers across her lips and make her taste the violence of what she'd done. It would repulse her to know that she was much more like him than she cared to admit.

"I am vengeful, Sherkyn," he darkly promised her, sheathing his blade. "It's my rightful role to win, but maybe this once..." And he leaned close enough that he could see her slightly parted lips and the tired, black circles beneath her eyes. "This once, I might be able to appreciate the loss. Don't forget whose blood is on your sword, because its a rare honor that you've claimed. If you forget, it might cost you your life."

"Get out of here, Cassius," she softly but firmly spoke.

"In my own good time," he assured her, ready to devour her as she pulled away from him. She was being careful to keep her eyes on his hands at all times, which gave him some measure of satisfaction. Perhaps he would have gone after her, but his body had that euphoric, dazed feeling of a powerful potion, which was a new experience for him. "Did it feel good, Sherkyn?" he pressed as he closed his eyes.

"Go home, Cassius. You're out of your element tonight."

"You didn't enjoy it," Mehrunes answered for her, watching her walk away. "But you needed it." Did her gait just hitch? "I'll never tell," he smugly mocked. "And I'll never disapprove. How very generous of me." They parted ways, and nothing was left on the training yard but a blood and torn grass.


	38. Chapter 38: Rude Interruptions

I know it's been a long time since I updated, and I can't make any promises for future speed. Life is simply too hectic for that, but I will reiterate my promise to finish the story in as timely a manner as possible. Thanks for your support via reviews.

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Chapter 37: Rude Interruptions

"You're no match for me!" the boy gleefully shouted, brandishing his broom like a sword as he jumped about the empty foyer.

"Pyrus, are you done sweeping in there yet?" a voice demanded from the neighboring room, and the child froze, an annoyed sigh escaping him as he set bristles back to the floor. Why did his taskmaster forever interrupt at the most inopportune moments? He'd just been about to slay the vile intruder, and what a bloody, story-worthy event that would have been. Now, if Lady Lucretia were here, _she'd_ allow him to kill and then work, but she was out for the day.

"Pyrus, you answer me, boy."

"Yes, ma'am," he halfheartedly replied. "It's almost done."

"Good. Go to the kitchen and help scrub the cookery when you're done." The boy's sweeping was notably lax as he frowned at the floor, the edges of the broom constantly grazing the tips of his scuffed shoes as he daydreamed. Lord Arelius had told him that he was important in protecting Portia, but so far, all he'd done was vanquish dust, which was hardly becoming a protector. Then again, Portia had said that he needed to pay attention.

_Snap to it_, he chided himself, raking eyes over the room and searching for anything suspicious, but there was nothing to be found. With growing disappointment, he propped the broom against the wall and wiped hands on his trousers. There was nothing here—nothing at all. Chalk up another day of boring routine, except...the boy's eyes brightened as he noticed a small parcel, wrapped and carefully set on the edge of a tall, thin table. Lucretia always had the servants keep an arrangement of flowers and silver candlesticks on the table to brighten the foyer, and the box was jarringly out of place amid the lovely display. Someone had obviously left the package where it didn't belong, meaning that he could personally deliver it to Arelius to prove his observational skills.

Hands gripped the edge of package, and Pyrus was about to lift it when he paused, eyes wandering over a small, stained corner of the paper wrapping. The lacquered tabletop beneath the stain was also damp with a dark substance, and running a finger through it, the boy stared wide-eyed as he held the digit aloft to find crimson on cream skin. Heart racing with both excitement and fear, he was rooted in place as his eyes glued onto the once seemingly innocent delivery.

"Boy, how many times do I have to tell you to not dillydally?" The elderly servant was wiping floured hands on her apron, but her actions slowed when Pyrus held out his finger. "Ah, come here and I'll get you patched up. What did you do this time?"

"Nothing," he said, pointing to the package. The stain was spreading across the wrapping, and Pyrus watched, transfixed as it happened. It wasn't until someone shouted and a hand landed on his shoulder that he tore his gaze away. Who had been inside the house?

***************

The piece of paper in his hand was a formality that did more to preserve his cover than legalize his actions as Arelius cut across the street in full armor. Permission to search property was not a standard or necessary convention in the empire, but written approval was a wise decision when the target had some influence or wealth, for like it or not, there were ways of getting guards fired when they offended the wrong people. In this, the Legion Commander was much more supportive of his captains when they sought his sanction in investigations, although it wasn't strictly required. Either way, Arelius planned to keep the man informed in the vaguest sense so that securing his enemies would be easier when the time came—that, and he wanted his superior to block a trial for and public knowledge of the Mythic Dawn. The Blades needed to finish this business and bury the bodies without comment.

"Don't touch anything that looks enchanted," Arelius cautioned the two guards flanking him. "And don't act overly aggressive. Take your time and do a thorough job." This wasn't a shakedown or a a quest to find evidence, for he was certain that Horace and Cassius wouldn't leave incriminating items where they could be found, but he could picture Tamil below his feet, navigating the sewers with a singleminded intensity as she discovered the trapdoor leading into the basement where she'd once been cornered. She'd been thrilled when he'd told her to grab her weapons and get moving, especially on such short notice, for the woman did like her excitement.

Knocking on Horace's front door, Arelius felt nothing but cold, hardened displeasure as he waited and recalled a very bloody delivery. Pyrus would probably be jumping at shadows for weeks, the poor child, and the boy had been distressed in thinking that he'd failed to notice an intruder. So someone wished to frighten his household? Sharp, green eyes pinned a servant in place as the door before him swung inward.

"Welcome, sir," the servant nervously greeted, taking in the crest of command that spread across Arelius's breastplate. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Stand aside and don't interfere," Arelius stated, brushing by the flustered man without a thought. It would take more than a freshly packaged heart to scare him and his family, and by the end of the afternoon, the Mythic Dawn would know that.

*****************

"Of all the fetching times that this could happen..." Horace grumbled beneath his breath, handsome features marred by concern as he hurriedly knocked on the guest room's door. He didn't even bother waiting for a response as he rattled off his words. "Be ready. We have company. Guards." Hopefully the prince would stay in his room and not antagonize the visitors, for Horace could easily envision the ensuing disaster and grudge that the authorities would bear. It was definitely better if Mehrunes stayed where he wouldn't be a problem, and if Ruined Cloak so much as poked his head out of the basement, Horace's hair would go grey. Damn it, but he was a conspirator, not a damned babysitter for reckless and bloodthirsty monsters!

His feet pounded down the stair, worried face schooling itself into indignation and anger as he reached the last step.

"Good day, Horace Pantrov." Damn it all to Oblivion. Not only were guards in his home, but Arelius was here. The very man who they assumed spearheaded the Blades' attempts to thwart their plans was standing in his living room, looking determined and calm as he leafed through a display book on Imperial architecture.

"How can I be of service, sir?" Horace asked. "This is a most rude way to enter a man's home." He heard a door open upstairs, and his nerves tightened as he realized that Mehrunes was heading for the stairs, but the prince paused at the top to eavesdrop, advancing no further. Thank whatever gods might be listening that there were small reprieves in life.

"I'm here to search your home," Arelius stated, motioning the guards to continue into the next room. "We'll be done shortly." Horace couldn't believe the audacity of this man. Did the Blades have any idea what kind of forces they were tampering with? No, probably not, for how many people knew that Mehrunes was in the city let alone this house? Portia probably knew, but Horace didn't know the extent of her knowledge, and again, he grew annoyed with Mehrunes, for whatever Portia knew was likely the prince's fault. The man couldn't resist dropping heavy innuendos around the woman.

Horace felt his mouth run dry as he watched Arelius casually work, for the sudden possibility of the Blades having pinpointed this location for more aggressive attention was disquieting. He'd known that the enemy was getting closer, and that he was suspected of having connections to the Dawn by now, but no one had suspected that the enemy would act so boldly. At least there was nothing for them to find.

_You've got the upper hand, Horace_, he reminded himself. _They're grasping at straws if they've resorted to this_. Posture easing into a much more confident stance, he pointedly moved toward Arelius and closed the book.

"And what am I being investigated for?" he asked.

"The Watch retains its right to investigate without consideration for your comfort or inquiries," Arelius curtly replied.

"You can't do that," Horace retorted. He knew the law; he'd studied the idiotic legal system or lack thereof since he was a child. "You and I both know that unless you've a warrant from the Legion Commander or Council, you can't search an aristocrat's home without disclosing the reasons. I demand to know what I've done to bring you here." His response was the paper that was thrust into his hands, and he didn't need to read the article to know what it said. Tossing it aside in disgust, he wondered if higher authorities than Arelius were also suspicious of his connections to the Mythic Dawn. Was it too late to back out if things went south?

"You'd do well to cooperate," Arelius told him. "Now, are you going to show me upstairs, or shall I show myself?" Horace locked eyes with the captain, brown meeting green as he imagined 'Cassius' speaking with this man who was as tough and straight as a rod of iron.

"This way," he relented, breaking the stare and turning. Let the legion waste its time, because they weren't going to find anything.

*******************

Tamil's light steps were inaudible amid the dark corridors of the sewers—so light, in fact, that even most rats failed to detect her presence as she moved, red eyes dancing with promise. She'd waited for Arelius to agree to her plan for what felt like eternity, and the man had finally relented, unexpectedly awakening her mid-morning to tell her to move quickly. He wasn't known for enacting a plan on such short notice, but she'd counted her lucky stars as he pulled a warrant from his office. She wondered how long he'd had the thing, for he'd never said a word about visiting the legion commander.

The dunmer stopped as she turned an ear toward her left, a heavy scratching and tearing noise sounding from below in the sewer's filthy channel. She crept closer to the edge, curious as she discerned a hoard of mudcrabs, all clawing and ripping at the corpse of a plainly dressed young woman who bobbed in the putrid waters. The figure seemed fairly familiar, and as the body rolled with a crab's particularly sharp tug, Tamil's eyes narrowed, recognizing the beaked nose and large eyes of Agatha, a servant girl newly hired by Lucretia only last month. Most telling was the gaping hole cut in the girl's left breast, the wound precise and pale in the dim lighting of nighteye.

Tamil gave the body one last glance as it was pulled lower by scavengers, and then continued onward in search of entranceways. She knew the sewers well enough that the seemingly endless tunnels weren't disorientating, and she knew for certain that she was beneath Horace's neighborhood. The thin passage to her right led toward the basement of Crassio, where she'd once gone to deliver a sensitive shipment order, and from his home, Horace's was a mere three houses. She counted her steps, picturing the street above as she slowed to a more cautious pace.

Here, she decided, eyes happily alighting to the narrow staircase that led upward toward an oddly angled archway. The room at the base of the stairs was interesting enough with the odd design drawn in what looked like white chalk on the floor's center. Tamil memorized the symbol so that she could replicate it later, moving about the space with one ear forever turned toward the stairwell. There were crates here, bedrolls, and candles, but nothing delighted her more than the red robe that she found inside a small chest. She pushed the bundle into the bag across her shoulder, and then uncorked a small, green bottle that had been hidden by the cloak.

_Just wait until I get my hands on that skinny son of a bitch_, she darkly thought, the telltale bitter scent beneath her nose making her quickly replace the cork. Considering the odd properties of the poison that she associated with the Mythic Dawn, it wouldn't surprise her if breathing the concoction had damaging effects, and so the Blades' alchemists would be pleased to get their hands on something like this. _Another potion for the log_, and the bottle disappeared safely between the folds of the the red cloak.

She moved to the stairs and slowly began ascending, knowing that Arelius would take as long as possible to search the manor for her sake. What she had already found would be adequate in securing their stance and suspicions, but the door was right there, and in another few steps, she could take a peak. Perhaps no one was around, being preoccupied with the intruders upstairs, but then again, maybe _he_ was here. A warning shot down Tamil's spine as she reminded herself that if she died down here, the evidence would never reach the Blades, and Arelius would be handicapped, but _she_ wouldn't die. In fact, she almost hoped that her mysterious, cloaked enemy was here, just to fully satisfy her curiosity.

_One look and then leave_, she reluctantly cautioned herself. _You've higher obligations_. When younger, she'd almost failed several assignments due to unnecessary prying, and with a sour frown, she remembered a scar across her back that she'd gained from an older assassin upon being seen during a mission. She wouldn't have been seen and brought dogs down upon them if she hadn't lingered to see how the murdered son's spiteful father would react to the body, and that wasn't the only job that had cost her blood. She'd always considered herself to have outgrown such unprofessional flaws, but now, as she tiptoed onto the step's landing, she admitted that old tendencies died hard.

Her hands cracked open the old, damp door that separated the sewers from Horace's basement, and one red eye pressed to the crack. There was faint torchlight beyond, illuminating a small, stone room that she had never before seen, and someone was standing with his back toward her. She watched with increasing fascination as the man, who was cloaked head-to-toe in black, slowly removed his gloves to reveal pale, white hands. Then his hood was thrown back, and although his face was turned away from her, she could tell from his thick, grey-streaked hair that he was either an Imperial or a Nord.

The robe fell away, revealing lean, naked shoulders that sloped into a gracefully curved back that didn't bear a single scar. The man's body was impeccable from the subtle strength of his form to the ease with which he walked about in his black pants, and Tamil couldn't help but feel that there was something unnatural about her rival. As he walked toward a low shelf, she noted that his muscled body appeared young and healthy, but on closer inspection, she saw that the skin around his collar bones was pulled taut and looked painfully stretched, and there were noticeable wrinkles around his abdomen. He might move beautifully, but his body was an odd contrast between young and old.

Biding her time, she crouched and waited to see what the man was doing, and when he uncorked a flask of some dark substance, she crouched lower. Perhaps it was more poison, but no, he merely downed the entire bottle, setting it back on the shelf with a deep gulp of air as he began to shake and chant. With a mixture of apprehension and intrigue, Tamil noted how his words echoed about the room with a strange resonance and tone that reminded her of necromancy, death, and the dark, endless depths of the night. He convulsed, almost falling to the floor, before lifting himself on shaky hands, head thrown back in a grimace as his words faded.

_What did he just...?_ Tamil's thoughts were interrupted as the man easily stood to retrieve his cloak, and was it her imagination, or was his gait even smoother than before? The wrinkles were gone, the hair a rich, dark auburn, and his arms flexing testily. By the Nine, what was he, and what the hell had just happened? She watched him leave the room, and then darted inside to grab one of his flasks before beating a hasty retreat. She'd already risked the mission with her spying, and she wouldn't risk further problems until later.

Running through the sewers, she smiled and congratulated herself for having pulled one over on her opponent. Hopefully he noticed the missing flask when he returned to his chambers.

****************

He needed to get Mehrunes out of the house, and Horace was aware of little else as his eyes shifted between Arelius and the daedric prince. From the moment that the two had laid eyes on one another, they'd paused, serious expressions squaring off as if measuring each other's worth, and no doubt they were. Mehrunes was casually draped in a chair beside his bed as the captain marched inside, and if looks could kill, Horace knew that Arelius would be a bloody stain of a memory by now. Couldn't Mehrunes at least act like he was a polite diplomat?

"I don't like people going through my belongings," Mehrunes commented, propping his boots on the edge of the bed and sipping cider from a silver mug.

"I'm afraid that there's no option, citizen," Arelius officially replied, paying the man no heed as he opened a closet and rifled through the clothing. Mehrunes glanced at Horace, who frowned and shook his head. _Please, just let the prince act lowly this once_.

"Lady Portia Augustine lives at your home, does she not?" Horace wanted to hit his head off of the wall, perhaps even give Caranya another go in bed—anything but enduring this painfully stilted conversation that was borderline threatening. Mehrunes might be a prince, but even princes couldn't act like they ran the show when they were in disguise. At least Ruined Cloak was tucked away in the basement. Of course, if one of the guards went down there...Damn. He was having a drink once his unwanted visitors left.

"She is a temporary guest," Arelius allowed, not bothering to look at Mehrunes as he moved toward a smaller dresser and began opening drawers.

"You must be pleased to have such wonderful company." Horace remained blank-faced, but he inwardly scowled, wondering what the prince's obsession with the woman was. She was an enemy, and yet he spoke of her like she was some type of precious treasure, even ignoring more important business to pursue and harass the Blade. If he'd nab the woman and be done with it, than the manor could return to is former emptiness, which sounded like pure bliss as Mehrunes mockingly smiled at Arelius. Where had the prince been last night, anyway? He'd come back at the oddest hour, and he'd refused to talk about it.

"I hope that she has no plans to leave the city," Mehrunes continued.

"Not that I know of," Arelius dismissed. "Although she may decide to leave whenever she wishes. What's in here?" Arelius's hand landed on a locked chest, and Mehrunes rose from his seat, eyes flashing dangerously as the captain remained unwavering.

"It's personal," Mehrunes nearly growled, making Horace shoot the man a warning glance.

"Open it," Arelius ordered. Gods, this was getting worse by the second, and the way that Mehrunes' fingers were curling, as if he might hit the officer...

"Cassius," Horace interrupted. "Perhaps you'd best take care of the errand that you mentioned earlier." Mehrunes turned baleful eyes on him, clearly telling him what he thought of the suggestion. "I can handle things here." _Don't ruin this for us, my lord_.

For a moment, he was sure that the prince would outright refuse, but then Mehrunes grudgingly relented, standing back as Horace pulled a key from his belt. There was nothing incriminating in that chest, and he was relieved that Mehrunes could ignore his territorial nature enough that he wouldn't jeopardize their work. Sometimes Horace was convinced that Mehrunes was too hotheaded and selfishly flippant to ever successfully conquer Tamriel. His confidence in the immortal was slipping, but admitting or even insinuating his thoughts would likely get his throat slit, and by none other than that bastard freak slithering around somewhere beneath his feet.

"I'll return later," Mehrunes stated before turning toward Arelius. "Do give Portia my regards, and tell her that I'd love to have dinner again. Perhaps I'll come to call on her, if you don't mind." Stoic as he was, there was something undeniably forceful about the look that Arelius was leveling at Mehrunes, but the prince merely grinned. "Yes. I think I'll do that." The door shut behind the daedra, and Horace almost breathed a sigh of relief.

"Your friend seems rather aggravating," Arelius commented.

"You have no idea," Horace muttered, unlocking the chest to reveal a collection of daggers, but when he looked up, Arelius was staring at something else entirely, and he followed the man's sight to the painting that hung near the door. The dark landscape was an odd image to display in a guest room, but Horace had left it be since his mother had bought and loved the piece. She'd certainly loved it a hell of lot more than him.

"An interesting choice," the captain mused.

"My mother's taste, not mine, sir," Horace clarified. He hoped that this torture was over soon.


	39. Chapter 39: Don't You Know?

Chapter 38: Don't you Know?

Everything was far too silent in the manor.

Portia walked into the kitchen to seek an explanation, and found an elderly servant sliding warm biscuits onto a plate. Her long, grey hair was twirled up into a bun, and her wrinkled face was creased in a sympathetic smile as she patted a boy on the head. Standing in the doorway, Portia watched as Pyrus gingerly took a biscuit from where he sat on a stool, hunkered over the large table at the kitchen's center, pots and pans hanging overhead.

"Did something happen?" she probingly asked.

"Portia!" Pyrus burst, head jerking upward and the biscuit forgotten as he launched off of the stool and into her arms. She was taken aback by his unexpected display of affection, his arms wrapped around her as she cast a questioning glance at the other servant.

"Someone left a message in the foyer today, my lady," she sighed. "It's got the whole house shaken up, but we've seen worse. It's mostly the newer staff that's upset. I suspect that it was a message for the master." Portia nodded and ran a hand through Pyrus's shaggy, brown hair. She desperately wanted to ask for details, but didn't wish to do so in front of a child as clearly agitated as Pyrus.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

"Yes," he answered, stepping back from her with worried eyes. "I swear that I've been paying attention," he insisted. "I don't know who it was that got into the house, or how..." He bit his lip and shuffled backward, looking ashamed. "I apologize, my lady. I'll do better next time..." Portia fondly smiled and stood to her full height.

"Even the best of us miss things," she assured. "So you shouldn't feel badly."

"The lady knows what she's talking about," the other servant agreed. "Now come over here and finish your biscuit. I even opened some blackberry jam for you." Portia walked closer to the other woman as Pyrus resumed his seat and began spreading his jam, small face still downturned.

"What was the message?" Portia quietly asked.

"Someone left a heart in a box. Pyrus found it, and the poor child was so frightened that you'd been hurt that Arelius had to take him aside for a private talk. He seems okay now, but he's feeling guilty, what with Lucretia calling him your protector and whatnot. He's a dedicated boy." Portia glanced at Pyrus to find him watching them, but he quickly snapped his attention back to his food when he realized that he'd been caught.

"No one was hurt, were they?" Portia asked.

"No, and we don't know where the heart came from either. From the blood, it seemed like it was fresh, and...well, don't go telling the boy, but one of the young girls didn't show up for work today. She'd just started too—replacing her sister, who left to have a baby."

"And where's Arelius?" The servant began kneading a ball of dough as she commendably kept her calm. Portia had a feeling that the woman had been working here for a long time and had seen a lot. Maybe she even knew or suspected the depth of her employers' activities.

"He left, my lady. I'm assuming that it was to take care of this nasty business. Knowing how that man is, he'll have it cleaned up soon. Have a biscuit while you're here. I made them to cheer the house." Portia took the suggestion and grabbed one of the tempting treats while she studied Pyrus's mood. A child shouldn't have been exposed to such violence and terror at his age. She hadn't seen her first bloodshed until joining the Watch, and she'd been prepared for it by then.

"I heard that you found the...box," she commented.

"I was sweeping, and I saw it." Portia smiled encouragingly.

"So you _did_ do your job. Imagine if no one saw it and something bad happened because of it. Now Arelius is out taking care of the problem, and all because of you." The boy blushed to his ears under the praise, shifting about on his seat.

"I suppose," he allowed. "But someone else would have seen it too."

"But someone else didn't. You did, and thank you for helping."

"You're welcome, my lady." He was too adorable by far, and Portia beamed as an idea popped into her head. She wouldn't have this child be scarred or troubled by what had happened, and her hands were tied until Arelius returned with news anyway.

"How about we go to the Market District for a while?" she asked. "I have some free time, and I heard that Jensine just got some crystals from Summerset Isle. Have you ever seen elfin crystals?"

"No," Pyrus excitedly smiled.

"Then let's go." He bounced toward the door, and the older servant chuckled.

"You're doing a wonderful thing, my lady," she approvingly commented.

"I know what it's like to live with fear and blood," Portia softly answered. "And I won't see a small heart crushed with that weight."

"Are you coming?" Pyrus called from the front door.

"Yes." Portia followed the boy out of the house, feeling for all the world like she was trailing a miniature Gilthan in the making.

********************

"That's the biggest tomato that I've ever seen!" Pyrus exclaimed, pointing toward the jumbo produce that a peddler was wheeling about. Portia waved to the peddler and ushered her charge along, the boy happily chatting as they looked over numerous goods. His unease over the day's events was slowly being erased, and Portia hoped that his worries were permanently dispelled, but she would ask Lucretia to keep an eye on the boy just in case.

"You shouldn't slow down, my lady," Pyrus suddenly stated, making Portia realize that she had indeed stopped walking while he kept plowing ahead. She'd been distracted by loud hawking for the Black Horse Currier, for a Khajiit was practically flapping the latest addition in her face while a shouting man ran by her. The market district was always active and chaotic on a Sundas afternoon, and she supposed that preparations for the upcoming Queen Mother's Day were partially to blame. The festival called for numerous candles and decorations as people lit displays in honor of each prominent family member or friend that had been lost. The entire city would literally be aglow with the results.

"If you're going to stop, you need to say something," Pyrus was saying, standing beside her with a frown. "I can't protect you if you disappear, and there are some suspicious looking people around here." Portia smiled at his protective streak and leaned closer.

"And who looks suspicious to you?" she asked. "I wouldn't want to go near anyone dangerous."

"Well..." Pyrus thoughtfully pursed his lips. "That man over there was staring at you." Portia swiveled to find a man leaning against a wall, an ale mug in one hand, and a half-smile on his face. Okay, so he was checking her out. That was nothing serious, but she wasn't going to explain to Pyrus that the man was a lecher. "And that man over there is 'a total bastard'." Portia nearly burst out laughing at his word choice, but kept a straight face for the boy's sake.

"And why would you say that?" she asked, trying to see whom he was pointing at, but a passing cluster of people obscured her view across the street.

"That's what the ladies over there were saying," Pyrus shrugged. "He's right..." Portia took a step sideways and craned her neck, unsure of the said bastard's identity. "There he is!" Someone walked out from behind one of the colonnades at the market's center, the pillars encircling a raised stone platform where stalls were erected by traveling merchants, and Portia instinctively tightened her hold on Pyrus's hand.

"Cassius," she breathed.

"Who?" Pyrus asked, and Portia wondered whether Cassius should be allowed near children at all. The man didn't exactly have the temperament to deal with young ones, and she had no idea what his mood would be like after his defeat. He'd claimed that he'd never let it go, and she didn't doubt his resolution. "My lady?" Pyrus questioned.

"Hmm?" she absently asked, distracted by watching Cassius stroll along a section of crates, his attention passing over displayed objects as he rudely ignored another man's greeting. She couldn't hear the words, but could read the affront on the the greeter's face, and she could imagine Cassius dismissing the man as a pointless nuisance. One would never guess that the dishonest diplomat had recently lost given his commanding presence, its force causing most people to notice him, and some to shy away from him. He didn't even appear to suffer lingering affects from his injury, for he looked in prime condition as he ran a hand through his black hair, tucking loose strands behind his ears, and exposing the handsome angles and planes of his face.

"Can we look at the charms over there?" Pyrus asked.

"Sure," Portia agreed, tearing her eyes away from Cassius and allowing Pyrus to lead her toward a man sporting a collection of necklaces strung with miniature carvings of the Nine Divines. She tried to focus on the peddler as he explained the protective qualities of each charm to her and the boy, but her gaze kept drifting sideways to catch snippets of Cassius between passing shoppers, carts, and patrolling guards. She could feel him getting closer, and she wondered how he'd known that she was using him last night, for he'd called her out on her need for a fight. How in Oblivion could he know that when she herself had barely formed the idea into a coherent thought? The damned man seemed to understand more about her than she thought possible, and he'd even approved of her assault on him, perhaps welcoming it.

"Whose that?" Pyrus asked, and Portia half-listened as the peddler's voice lowered.

"That's Dagon, but I don't sell daedric carvings in public, kid—not in this climate." Two men carrying a thick carpet over their shoulders momentarily blocked Portia's view of Cassius, and she almost rose onto her toes to look over them, but then mentally kicked herself for the control that she sometimes willingly handed the man. She allowed him to pull her into uncomfortable conversations and situations, discussing forbidden subjects, and reminding her that she found him very attractive and compelling. In many ways, he'd seen more of her mentally and physically than anyone else had, and what did it mean that he'd known of her duplicitous motivations last night and had still decided to feed her need? He was never condemning, only goading, which made sense given the lack of restriction that he exercised, and in Portia's mind, he was almost a wild, unstoppable force that prowled the city searching for conflict.

"He's the lord of destruction," the peddler's voice hoarsely drifted. "But he's also known to grant power to his followers, and some claim that he isn't evil but merely a force of change. He creates revolutions that push history forward and mark new eras—none of which is necessarily bad. It's part of life, and like most of the daedra, he's a representation of the darker side that exists in all of us."

"Pyrus," Portia interrupted, feeling heat pass down her spine as someone's attention landed on her. "Let's go see if anyone's selling fresh pies." Pyrus's eyes lit up in anticipation, and Portia breathed a sigh of relief as they abandoned the peddler. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Cassius standing stock still, black eyes fixed on her with an intensity that banished everyone else in the market from existence.

"I think that she's selling pies," Pyrus pointed.

"Lead the way, fearless one," she tried to joke, pulling her eyes from Cassius, but she could still picture him moving closer, steps sleek like those of a hunting lion. She walked with a stiff back, knowing that she couldn't avoid the man, and not really wishing to avoid him either, despite her desire to keep Pyrus away from him. _She_ should be the one acting like the victor, and when they spoke, she could subtly point that out to bolster her nerves, but as the sphere on her ear began to radiate, an urge to stop walking and wait for Cassius seized her.

_No_. Portia frowned, wondering from where such a powerful urge originated. She would make _him_ come to _her_, and the thought sent a thrill down her back that was very similar to what she'd felt upon besting him yesterday. For a moment, she had held the power, and she'd imagined holding it over Mehrunes as well as Cassius. _Sherkyn_, she reflected. Perhaps she had earned that title, for both men had bestowed it upon her, and they had, oddly enough, spoken it with respect. Vaguely, she realized that she felt honored, for before, the title had been of their choosing, but when she'd rested her blade against Cassius stomach, she'd decided to embrace their words.

She risked a look to her right and noted that Cassius had moved to keep pace with her, walking parallel but at a distance. Stepping over a heap of rotten vegetables, she squeezed through a flock of women to follow Pyrus, hand going for her money bag as the scent of warm pies descended.

"Two pies," she told the woman, laying several coins on an overturned crate.

_You're beautiful in flight, Sherkyn_.

"I've got apple and cherry," the baker smiled. "Which would you like?" Portia didn't really care as the air around her grew thicker. For a second, she was sure that she smelled spice, and she closed her eyes, certain that if she opened them, Mehrunes would be grinning at her.

"I'll take apple," she stated. "Pyrus?"

"Cherry please." She took her pie but didn't eat as a voice invaded her head.

_Losing your appetite, my lady?_ She gritted her teeth and refused to turn as she sensed someone stopping to stand beside her. Pyrus was already glaring at the newcomer, and he actually moved to stand between the man and Portia.

"Would you care for a pie, sir?" the baker asked.

"No," came Cassius's rich voice. "And how are you today, Lady Augustine?" Portia swung her head to meet his satisfied smile, and she deliberately took a bite of her pie.

"Fine," she answered. "Perhaps we should be going, Pyrus." Cassius shifted his eyes to the boy, eyebrows rising at the sight of the youngster's cross expression.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Let's go home, my lady," Pyrus said, ignoring the man. For a second, Cassius's eyes darkened, and Portia protectively laid a hand on Pyrus's shoulder to guide him away from the dangerous man, but then a deep chuckle erupted across the scene.

"So you've found yourself a bodyguard," Cassius laughed. "Well, he looks quite effective. What's your name, boy?" Portia loosened her grip and allowed the servant to take a step forward, his head craned backward to look up at Cassius.

"Pyrus," he proudly stated.

"Cassius," Portia began. "The boy has chores to be do today, so I'm taking him home."

"And you?" Cassius taunted. "Do you also have chores, or could you spare a few moments for a friend? I will be leaving the city shortly, and I haven't had nearly enough time with you." His words surprised her, but Portia kept her reaction to a minimum by focusing on Pyrus, who was now looking very confused.

"He's your friend?" the boy asked, considering.

"We're quite close," Cassius smugly stated. "You could say that I fancy our lady very much." Portia couldn't look away from his eyes as their expressions met, and she absently realized that Pyrus had slipped one hand into hers.

"If he's your friend, I suppose that he's okay," the boy concluded, but not sounding very convinced as Cassius shot him a wicked smirk. Portia could hear giggling to her left, and saw that several young women were admiring Cassius, one even sending a wink her way. At least she wasn't the only one who found him so horribly attractive, but she hadn't thought so at first. It seemed to her that she should be more repelled the more that she got to know the man, but such was not the case.

"Sherkyn," Cassius soothed, sounding sly as he advanced another step. An urge to...Portia cleared her head, unsure of what the chaos within her was suggesting, but finding that she didn't like it. As if in a dream, she felt herself being smothered by her connection to Mehrunes, and her conclusions from last night began to disintegrate. "May I accompany you to this boy's home?" Cassius asked, but made it sound like a demand. "Once he's returned, we could take a walk."

"I have an errand to run," Portia honestly shared.

"Then I will keep you company. I can't think of anyone that I'd rather spend my day with, and you must admit that we always have an interesting time." True, she couldn't deny that.

"If you insist," she agreed. He offered her his arm, and for a second, she reached for it, but then Pyrus caught her attention, and with an innocent smile, she took his hand instead. Cassius scowled and glared at the back of the boy's head as they began walking, making Portia laugh lightly to herself.

"Something amusing?" Cassius whispered, walking on her free side.

"I hope that you're not jealous of a servant boy, sir," she returned, mischief swirling in her eyes as Cassius scoffed.

"Don't be ridiculous. Why would I be jealous?" Why _would_ he be? Portia recounted his numerous attempts to corner her, to touch her, even to draw her away from others as he had done with...with Gilthan. Thinking of dinner that night, she suddenly saw quite clearly how she'd barely spoken to Gilthan, and why?--because Cassius was forever pulling her aside, and he was the one to trail her into the shadows—to push her into a wall of entwined flowers as lips pressed to hers. The laughter died as he slid his arm beneath hers, which would have been a gentlemanly gesture were his grip not so forceful.

"Yes, why would you be jealous?" she hollowly echoed, keeping her eyes on the street ahead. _You are mine_. How many times had she heard a version of that sentiment since stealing the sphere? She'd never been one to draw such possessive and hounding attentions from men, and yet, she knew for certain that forces were waiting to claim her. Had...had someone seen Gilthan as a target for reasons other than his involvement in helping her? The idea sent a shiver down her spine as they neared Arelius's home, and Pyrus released her hand, leaving her entirely in the care of Cassius.

"I'll have my eyes open," Pyrus promised. "Thanks for the pie."

"You're welcome," she said. "I'll be home later." The door closed behind the boy, and Portia turned to look at Cassius, the movement of a dark shadow behind him momentarily catching her eye.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"I thought that I saw someone in the alley over there, but I must have been seeing things." She herself doubted it, and Cassius turned to look in that direction, his grip on her tightening. It was getting colder, and a shiver ran through her as a breeze played with the hem of her cloak.

"You might not have your bodyguard anymore," Cassius teased. "But I promise you one thing." He pulled her closer and brushed hair away from her face. "No harm will come to you while I am here." Portia found his body warmth appealing as they resumed walking, her feet leading as she took this man on her personal errand.

"You mean that no one except you will harm me," she corrected him, and he smiled appreciatively.

"If a warrior holds a beautiful sword, does he break it?" Cassius mused, and Portia watched his calm expression from the corner of her eyes.

"No," she agreed. "He either uses it like a tool or hangs it on his wall like a trophy."

"Now, now," Cassius tutted. "You know better, my lady. A true warrior doesn't hang a sword up, and it's never just a tool. He carries it with him, polishing it, sharpening it, treating it as an extension of himself, for he can own nothing else of equal value. When the sword is beautiful, it is that much more valuable." Portia wanted to growl at him for talking about ownership yet again, and she opened her mouth to do so, but the words forming on her tongue quickly died.

"Thank you," she softly said, only realizing how genuine the words were after they had left her mouth. No one had ever given her such a compliment in her life.

"You are most very welcome." They walked side-by-side, and he slowly pulled her closer until their shoulders were pressed together.

"Where are we going, Sherkyn?"

"Right over there." And he looked up to find her nodding toward a funeral parlor.

**********************

Portia looked over the bill and consented, signing her name at the bottom and writing Arelius's address beneath it. She had ordered a marble tombstone and bought a plot on Green Emperor Way, which had cost a decent sum, but she'd been conservative in spending since it wasn't her money that would pay for this. Still, she was pleased with the placement of Gilthan near a street where his marker would be seen, for she couldn't imagine the elf ever being consigned to some obscure corner. No, he would have wanted to be right out front for all to see.

"I'll have this mailed, ma'am," the shopkeeper was saying. "You said that there won't be a body to bury...?"

"No. This is merely symbolic, and there won't be a service. I'll have the temple priests stop by to bless his name later." The man nodded, professionally distant as he went about filing her order, and Portia glanced toward Cassius, who was leaning against the wall and watching her. She wanted to tell him to get the hell out of here, for what business did he have intruding on this private duty, especially when his involvement was highly suspect? But he didn't look mocking. In fact, he was quite mellow as she moved toward the door.

"Did you order an inscription?" Cassius quietly asked.

"Yes," Portia simply answered with a slight pause. Maybe Cassius would appreciate... "Gilthan Lorenlee: one of the truest companions and bravest mages of his day. He would like that." She opened the door and stepped outside, Cassius behind her as she looked upward at a dreary, Hearthfire sky. The month was almost gone.

"I take it that he died performing some act of bravery," Cassius commented.

"Yes." _Like you don't know_. "From what I've heard, he even managed to taunt his enemy while he died." Cassius made no response as he stepped beyond Portia, his eyes as stormy as the sky overhead. _Such a majestic persona_, she mused. "There is something else that I would like to do. You may accompany me if you like."

"Of course." He fell in step beside her, and Portia didn't take his arm this time as she walked. Her stride was slow and her eyes detached as a light drizzle began to fall, causing her to pull her cloak more closely about her neck. There was a chill in the air, and her back hurt from where Cassius had stepped on her. Damn, but the man certainly knew how to apply pressure and surprise in a fight.

She rolled her shoulders, and pulled a ring from her pocket, tiny droplets of rain sliding down its golden curves as she entered Green Emperor Way. Tombstones and monuments passed the two wanderers as the red caps of fly amanitas grew moist and the smell of damp earth rose into the air, the toes of treading boots uncomfortably wet. She read the names that were etched in stone all around her, until she stopped by a small, empty plot where unruly grass was matted flat. Cassius was behind her, but she hardly registered his presence.

"This is where they'll put him," she softly commented, feeling at peace over the loss. Part of her was pleased that Cassius was here to see the cost of the game to her, and she wanted him to know that Gilthan was revered as a hero. "He deserves a hero's burial, but as someone once told me, most heroes die in the gutter. I suppose that it doesn't matter. Those who care know—the gods know."

She cradled the ring, examining its design as the urge to wear it again assaulted her. Was it right to bring Cassius here? She could feel her subconscious opening the chaos sphere, and she admitted that part of her wanted Mehrunes Dagon here to see this—not her loss, but the martyr that he'd turned Gilthan into. If there were to be a proper funeral, the prince would be one of the few who would deserve to attend.

_Why not wear the ring?_

Portia slipped the tip of her finger into the golden loop as two arms wrapped around her from behind.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Keeping you warm, Sherkyn. I should think that was obvious." She allowed him to pull her against his chest, and she reminded herself that perhaps Mehrunes Dagon _was_ here. It didn't matter if he'd bled like a human, for what other explanation was there for the sudden warmth infusing her? It wasn't his body temperature, but the chaos sphere, and it was reacting to her call on Mehrunes. Yet Mehrunes did not appear as he should have, and she didn't have far to reach for him. It already felt like he was directly behind her, and with a jolt of realization, she attempted to pull away from Cassius, but he held fast.

"You don't want to catch a cold," he taunted, and Portia again looked to the ring in her hand. Part of her screamed to get away from the man behind her, for by the Nine, she was standing before Gilthan's symbolic grave, and again, she doubted whether or not the elf had died with any regrets toward her. _Move, run_, her mind commanded, but the call of the ring muddled her thoughts as she slipped the rest of her finger through it, and suddenly a shock of magic coursed through her, making her awareness of Cassius all but disappear.

_"My lovely Portia,"_ a familiar voice sighed.

"Gilthan?" A lone tear slid down her face.

_"I don't have much time left, and my ability to think clearly is woefully lacking right now."_ A weak, forced laugh sounded within her head, and Portia could have sworn that she heard the sputter of bloody lips within it. _"We never did speak after dinner, and I'm sorry for that. Hopefully this finds you, and with it my last regards. Don't go feeling guilty or anything foolish like that, beautiful. It gives your face lines, and I was bound to go violently one way or another. At least I know that I've done something worthwhile." _

His voice was growing weaker, and Portia felt another tear slide free, memories of their short time together crashing to the forefront of her mind.

_"I leave you this message: keep my books, leave wine at my grave, and about Cassius...Cassius is Mehrunes Dagon, Portia, and he's obsessed with you. I don't think that he'll kill you, but...ah, Portia, Time is short. I'll miss you, fair lady. Get out of this alive...I..."_ The voice trailed off into the soft rhythm of the rain, and Portia gasped, throat constricted.

"Gilthan?" she pleadingly called. She wanted his voice to return, but it was gone, faded away to another plane, and all she was left with was his warning. She suddenly realized that Cassius had turned her around, and now she was facing him, looking into a face that was stern and contemplative. _Mehrunes_, her mind whispered, but it wasn't a surprise, only a confirmation. _'I don't think that he'll kill you..._' Why would Gilthan think that? He had probably been paying closer attention to her relationship with 'Cassius' than she had been at that time, and she silently agreed with the elf's estimation. Whatever was in store for her, it wouldn't be nearly as easy as death.

"Is something wrong?" Cassius asked.

"Yes and no," Portia answered, trying to pull away, but he was still unwilling to release her, and her mind was busy. Gilthan hadn't resented her, even when she'd avoided his warning due to the attentions of the very man who'd caused the elf's death. _He forgave me_, she inwardly sighed. He hadn't demanded revenge or retribution or explanations. No, he'd only asked her to put wine at his grave, and she already knew that she'd buy the most expensive variety that she could find.

"Death is such an abstract concept for some of us," Cassius stated. "Some do not and cannot mourn like mortals. I have seen great warriors fall, but I'll tell you something, Portia. Among the dremora, only those who die from illness or accidents are lamented. Those who die in combat are honored forever and ever."

"If Arelius wanted to comfort me, he should have said that," Portia spoke lowly, and then Cassius's mouth was pressed against hers, one of his arms around her waist, and the other behind her neck, angling her mouth toward his. Portia's lips moved in response, reluctant but spurred along by his much hungrier force. She felt as if she was inside the chaos sphere as the rain seemed to disappear, her skin growing warmer as Cassius's hair fell against her cheeks.

_He's Mehrunes_, but she didn't withdraw as she was pressed tightly against his chest.

_"Sherkyn,"_ a voice purred in her mind, and Portia was again reminded of Gilthan's words. What exactly did the prince of destruction want from her? She nearly yelped in surprise when the chaos encircling them seemed to slip beneath the chest of the daedra kissing her, pulling her along with it so that she could feel his heartbeat as if it were her own. The intoxicating suffocation that threatened to overwhelm her made her inwardly recoil, but Mehrunes reached out for her spirit, the word 'Mine' screaming through her mind with such an intensity that she nearly cringed.

_"Mine."_

_"No!"_ His grip tightened, and she tore her lips away from his, looking into his eyes and seeing a reflection of the Deadlands within them. It wasn't until then that the full realization of what she'd just done hit her, and she was hard pressed to recover from the blow as the taste of him lingered on her moist lips. He looked ready to take her right then and there, and she didn't think that she could stop him if he tried. Perhaps, if he thought that she was still ignorant...

"Cassius," she breathed, and he withdrew himself. "I...I should get back home."

"You still don't know, Sherkyn?" he asked, mocking, one hand reaching up to cup her face. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture on his part. "We don't have much time left, Portia. Meet me tomorrow evening."

"I can't make promises."

"If you don't come to me, I'll come looking for you, and that _is_ a promise." Portia felt his hand drop, and she immediately left, walking in the opposite direction that he'd gone, wherever it would take her. It was back to the manor for her, and she rubbed the ring that fitted over one finger, wondering what was about to happen. She had a feeling that everything was about to change, and not for the better.

So, this is my favorite chapter thus far, and it was crazy enjoyable to write. Let me know what you think, and yes, I realize that the festival I mentioned is not cannon; however, I noticed a distinct lack of holidays in Oblivion and its lore, so I inserted one that I found fitting. I also spent lots of time today correcting slight inconsistencies in previous chapters, because sometimes, when your writing time is so spaced out in a story this large, small details or previous comments get forgotten. I know...shameful, but I fixed lore and whatnot that I muddled—nothing major.

Read and review, and enjoy!


	40. Chapter 40: Calling on Old Friends

Chapter 39: Calling on Old Friends

Blood.

She had expected some sort of potion, but the glass bottle that she now tossed between her hands contained nothing but blood, and dunmer blood at that. Tamil's thoughts conjured the lithe form that she'd studied earlier that day as she rounded an empty street corner and began her gloomy walk through Talos Plaza. The city's defensive wall ran along her left, and houses stood to her right, their doors adorned with ornate knockers that often alluded to family crests or history. This was, after all, one of the wealthiest sectors of the city, and as such, the residents were either aristocrats or commoners who imitated aristocrats by displaying familial pride, no matter how fabricated.

Tamil finally paused, her eyes raking scathingly over the doorway before her, and her playful tossing of the bottle coming to an abrupt end. Unlike the other houses, this one had a plain door, and it was the last place that she wanted to be. It was shameful really—this avoidance of one person whom she hadn't spoken to in years. In fact, she estimated that six years had passed since she'd directly encounter the man whom she now sought, and she would have gladly added another six years to that time, but alas, her options were limited, and so, with a scowl, she knocked on the door.

"Can I help you with something?" a slithering voice asked as the door opened by but a fraction. An Argonian peered out through the space, his reptilian face mostly red but for splashes of green around the eyes, and his forehead sweeping back into an array of horns. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he opened the door a bit wider as Tamil offered a brief greeting.

"Usheeja," she began, "I need to speak with your employer, and not the one that lives across the street." The Argonian kept a firm, clawed hand on the door, effectively blocking her way forward as his slitted eyes narrowed, and Tamil was not unaware of the sword strapped to his waist. Considering that he still wore a full chainmail outfit, she was assuming that he'd just come from work at Umbacano Manor.

"I live alone," Usheeja claimed. "I know not what you speak of, dunmer."

"Don't play dumb," Tamil replied. "I promise that I'm someone whom your housemate will be pleased to see. We're old acquaintances, and he's done nothing to hide his location from me." She was tempted to call the Argonian a lizard given her foul mood, but she refrained from doing so as Usheeja stepped aside and cautiously motioned her into his home. The faint, fading light of sunset filtered in through shuttered windows to reveal a fairly comfortable room with all the amenities of a wealthy household, but the space felt oddly cold and impersonal, which was all too fitting in Tamil's mind. She waited impatiently as Usheeja set aside his sword in good faith and locked the front door.

"He'll be awake by now, so I wouldn't suggest any foolish attempts to kill him."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Tamil sarcastically commented.

"Humph." The Argonian moved to the basement door and knocked before cracking it open. "You have a visitor, Ralyn. She claims that you'll want to see her." There was a pause, and then the Argonian jumped backward as the door swung outward with incredible speed, and slammed into the wall with a loud crack.

"Then by all means," a light voice echoed about the room, "send her down." Tamil held herself steady as she descended into near darkness, for there was but one lit lantern in the basement, which was hardly enough to afford her a decent view of the man whom she knew lurked directly beyond her vision. From the lone flame's limited aura, she could only spy a mismatched collection of boxes and chests, a single bed, and a desk piled sky high with books and loose paper. Apparently Ralyn was still very much the scholar.

"Tamil," a voice breathed, sounding surprised as the said elf boldly moved toward the desk and lifted an unfinished letter. She had never forgotten that voice with its airy, almost ethereal qualities, but the surprised tone was one with which she was unfamiliar. "Still reckless, I see." A hand snatched the letter from her, and although she recognized the angry cast to the man's word, she held her ground as she lifted her eyes toward a being that she'd vowed to wipe from memory.

"Ralyn," she acknowledged, looking up into the face of a tall dunmer. He stood a head taller than her and possessed the same, light gray, almost blue shade of skin as her own, but his hair was much different. The dark locks carried a faint, red tint, and were swept over the back of his head to reveal hawklike features. Like her own, his eyes were red, but unlike hers, his gave off a faint, hellish glow that all to clearly revealed his condition.

"I did not hope to see you again," he stated. "Did you come here with a death wish? Touching a vampire's belongings is stupidity at its finest." He was clothed in dark green robes reminiscent of a mage's garb, but he was no magic wielder. No, he hadn't an ounce of magic in his entire body, but he was cunning and quick—facts that Tamil was reminded of as she watched his eyes studying her.

"I did not expect to visit you," she honestly shared with a snide undertone. "Are you pleased to see me again?" He stared at her before stepping away, gloved hands folded behind his back as he adopted a cold expression.

"I have kept myself too busy to indulge in fantasies, my dear," he scoffed. "I'm afraid that one of Seridur's little pawns is actually dangerous."

"The Order of Virtuous Blood?" Tamil smirked, enjoying the man's disgusted curl of the lips.

"One day that fetching idiot is going to get himself killed, pretending to be human as he is, but our feud is none of your concern. What did you come here for, mortal?"

"Oh, it's mortal now, is it?" she tartly asked, causing him to shoot a dangerous glare at her. He looked more haggard than he had in a long time. "Don't worry. I won't take much of your time. I simply have a puzzle that I can't solve." She set the bottle of blood on his desk and watched as he uncorked it, tentatively sniffing the contents before running the tip of his tongue over the mouth of the bottle. Tamil couldn't look away as he sipped the liquid, his red eyes glowing brighter with hunger as he finally lowered the flask from his lips.

"Dunmer blood," he stated, reluctantly setting the bottle aside. "Nothing more, nothing less. What is the meaning of this? You know too well what can happen when I'm taunted with blood." His predatory vision engulfed Tamil, demanding answers, but she ignored him.

"You won't hurt me," she asserted, crossing arms over her chest. "So don't play the predator with me, Ralyn. Even if you wished me harm, neither one of us would walk away from a fight uninjured."

"So what do you mean by this?" the vampire all but hissed, waving a hand at the bottle. "And many years have passed, Tamil. I have changed in that time." She shrugged indifferently and watched with delight as his eyes lit with indignant annoyance.

"I saw a man drink this and grow younger, stronger, but he's not a vampire; he's mortal. I was hoping that you might have some answers." The vampire cocked his head to the side, staring at the bottle on his desk with fascination. Tamil had seen that look many times before when he'd been an ally of the guild, but that had been before he'd given her that false lead—before he'd slapped her in the face with his treacherous...

"There are rumors." Tamil snapped out of her thoughts. "There are mortals that worship vampires, mortals that hunt vampires, and then there are those that are...something else entirely. They don't wish to become undead and have a master, but they crave our eternal youth and powers. They are necromancers of a sort..."

"And?" Tamil pressed.

"And what?" Ralyn innocently asked. "Why should I tell you anything? Are you going to renounce your hate? In truth, I care not. You've nothing that I want." Tamil stepped closer, features as narrowed and aggressive as his.

"Oh, I have _something_ that you want," she lowly insisted. "It was good enough to draw your attention last time." She whipped a dagger out from her belt, and ran it across her palm, causing a thin line of blood to rise to the surface, and an instantaneous reaction. Ralyn's nostrils rapidly drew in air, and his fangs lengthened as his crazed eyes fixed on the wound.

"Dangerous game, Tamil," he hissed, but he did not move. He stood rigid and closed his eyes, choosing to release an exasperated sigh as his hands tightened into fists. "There is reportedly a small faction of mages that mix necromancy with ancient blood rites to grow more powerful. They are mortal and yet immortal—like creatures of the night, but not dependent on blood and without our weaknesses. Their knowledge was stamped out centuries ago when the most powerful vampires held a crusade against their kind, or so we thought. Apparently not all of them were destroyed."

"There, was that so hard?" Tamil asked, putting her dagger away and holding out her hand. She didn't want to feel his tongue on her skin, but she owed him this after slicing herself in his presence, and if she denied him, he might attempt to forcefully detain her. So she offered up her bloody palm, and Ralyn was on it in an instant, licking her skin clean and sucking on the wound until she jerked her limb away. The vampire was still licking his lips as she examined the freshly cleaned, shallow cut, wondering how difficult it had been for him to not bite down. He always had prided himself on control, especially when prolonging a kill.

"This is goodbye, Ralyn," she stated. "I will not seek you out again unless necessary. And if you come to me, I swear that I'll kill you." The man held his head high as he regarded her, eyes still burning with bloodlust.

"Don't let your guard down, Tamil," he warned. "You and I have coexisted for almost two decades, and for most of that time, I've been watching you." Tamil rolled her eyes and ascended the stairs to leave her former friend behind, her head cloudy with memories that she quickly vanquished. Memories were part of her dead past, and they didn't get much deader than Ralyn, even if his lips hadn't always felt so cold. It was only her abandonment of the guild that kept her from ending his existence, even now.

"Goodbye, little one," his voice trailed after her, and she forced herself to not respond or look back. After all these years, she been convinced that he'd willfully forgotten her as she had him, but she'd seen her dagger in the basement—the very one that she'd used to attack him in Morrowind. He'd kept it in the open after all these years, while she'd barely spared him a thought. Ah, the fates could be cruel, but not as cruel as people—a point that she dwelled on as he was again forgotten in favor of focusing on her work. Part of her knew that he would not cope nearly as well.

*********************

Arelius was still staring at her in silent contemplation as Portia gazed out the window, and she felt every ounce of his attention, the intensity of which would only increase with her coming comments. Of course, the realization that she was now slowly sharing would be far more stunning to him than her, for he hadn't spent time with both Mehrunes and Cassius, and so she was letting the implications of her words sink in before continuing.

"You're saying that you've seen that painting before?" Arelius questioned.

"There is no way that we're not talking about the same one," Portia sighed. "Jagged mountains, stormy skies...it's not exactly the ideal choice for a guest room, is it?" The sun was disappearing, and she wondered where Tamil had gone without so much as a word. It was odd that the dark elf hadn't yet reported on what she'd found in the sewers. She'd only dropped off the evidence and left.

"It was in your dreams?"

"Yes, and you know very well who I was with."

...

"Would you care for a drink, Portia?"

"I'd love one." She sat back down as Arelius handed her a glass of wine, and she took a long sip as he stared thoughtfully into space.

"You don't seem surprised," the captain noted. "How long have you known?"

"Not long," Portia admitted. "The possibility seemed farfetched when it first occurred to me. Now...now, Cassius and Mehrunes are so similar that it's a wonder I didn't catch on sooner." _Or admit it to yourself sooner, you fool._ She unconsciously relived the graveyard kiss, and again wondered about the extent of Mehrunes' plans for her. He'd been making sexually charged advances on her for some time now, and she wasn't even entirely sure when it had started. As with the sphere, she didn't understand everything that had or was transpiring.

"This will work for us," Arelius finally stated. "We can make it work."

"Yeah, at least we know where the bastard is, right?" Portia offered, making Arelius crack a slight smile. He lifted his glass toward her and then downed the contents. "So what's the plan that's formulating in that crafty head of yours?"

"You know me well, but I've nothing concrete at the moment. There are details that need worked out, and we can't do that until Tamil returns. Suffice it to say that Horace and Cassius won't be free men much longer if everything goes according to plan." Portia nodded and finished her alcohol, feeling warm and tired as she considered a second glass. It certainly helped calm the racing thoughts that were whirling about her head, and she needed something to slow the pace since she was suddenly reevaluating everything that Cassius had ever said to her.

"I'm sure that you have a lot on your mind," Arelius knowingly commented. "There is no reason that you need to wait for Tamil. She might not come back until morning, and I can always debrief you later. Get some sleep and be ready to work with the rising sun. There isn't going to be any rest for us in the next few days." Portia nodded and stood.

"We're closing in for the kill, but what do we do with the prince once we have him? How long will we even be able to hold him?"

"I don't have an answer, Portia. We might be incapable of doing anything." _He bleeds_, she reminded herself, _so maybe he can die in his human form_. "But we _can_ corner his supporters and force him to retreat. He won't stay here once he's exposed and defenseless, and that's our best hope. At least it will protect the sphere from him, and the capitol will be safe."

"But he won't give up," Portia asserted. "As long as I have the sphere, he won't stop."

"I know," Arelius agreed, sounding coldly concerned for but a moment. "But you don't need to keep it once he's gone. We'll seal it away, perhaps in the Blade stronghold, and when the dragonfires are relit, there will be nothing that Oblivion can do about it." His words were reassuring in their own way, and so Portia took her leave with hope that there would eventually be an end to this, but what of the chaos sphere? No one but Mehrunes knew the extent of what was happening to her, and she couldn't fathom what would happen once the sphere was gone. Whenever she removed it, she felt a void, like something wasn't quite right.

_More answers that will only come with time_, she inwardly grumbled, finding her own chamber and flopping onto the bed. She was incredibly tired as her eyelids closed, booted feet dangling over the edge of the bed with their muddy soles. A slight headache was hounding her, and she blamed it on being out in the cool rain as sleep swallowed her. Such a long day, and the night would be far too short to rectify her fatigue...

_"I'm too tired for this," she muttered, opening her eyes to the darkness surrounding her, and knowing that she was not alone in the dreamland. Hands ran down her sides, sliding slowly over her hips as hot kisses trailed down the side of her neck. It shouldn't have been possible since her tunic had a high collar, but then the realization that she was naked hit her, and her mouth ran dry. _

_"That's a new trick," she absently commented, earning her a chuckle that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Her thoughts were foggy as the kissing continued, and she wondered if this wasn't a real dream—not a result of chaos or damned connections, but a real, only-in-her-head dream. She wasn't sure as teeth lightly grazed the exposed skin behind her left ear. Hands wrapped around her from behind to rest on her abdomen, and she moved her own hands to cover them, her fingers sliding between the other person's as her head tilted backward to rest on a shoulder. _

_"What do you want, Cassius?" she asked, unsure of why she chose that name. The unseen kisser nuzzled against her neck, and she could feel his lips spreading into a twisted smirk. _

_"I've told you plenty of times," a deep voice promised. _

_"Stop," Portia commanded even as she leaned against his chest. _

_"Make me." Lips were on her mouth, her jawline, even her eyelids as she swayed with dizziness. She would have kissed him back if something nagging wasn't tugging at the back of her mind. She was forgetting something—something important, but her lips found his, and she quickly forgot about what had worried her so. More hands touched her, two on her hips, and two on her back, pulling her into someone. Were there two different men? No, there was one, but with four arms. That was odd, but she didn't object as she placed a kiss on the man's neck, right over his jugular. Her hands moved toward his waist of their own accord, part of her wanting nothing more than to prevent him from taking control of the situation. He couldn't be allowed to make the decisions, although she wasn't entirely sure why that was so important..._

"Damn dream," Portia muttered into her pillow, still dazed. The room was dark, and she wondered how late it was, but she didn't care enough to expend too much thought on the question. She was sweaty and troubled, and all she wanted to do was sleep. Cursing Mehrunes, her eyes again slid shut, and thankfully, there were no dreams this time around.

*********************

First Ruined Cloak's assistants had died, and now Arelius had entered his home. The fork in Horace's hand tapped incestantly against the tabletop as he considered his options, remembering all too clearly the knowing, assured manner in which the captain had explored the manor. The man hadn't seemed hurried, anxious, or even curious, and if the nobleman could fathom a motive, he would have guessed that Arelius had taken his time, but to what end? Either way, he felt the walls closing in around him, and if Mehrunes didn't reclaim the sphere and leave soon, he was going to begin regretting his allegiance. Let Ruined Cloak die for religious fanaticism. He had better things to do.

Horace released the fork and stretched his legs, pleased that his newest servant had brought him a mug of warmed cider. The woman had asked about candles for the upcoming festival, and now he questioned exactly how much money he'd thrust into her hands. He hadn't counted due to distractions, and the girl had merely beamed with a blush and run off. She was a bit naive to think that he favored her just because he'd recently slept with her, but time would teach her that lesson. At least his cook couldn't forewarn and protect all of the females that periodically came and went in the city. Seasonal workers were a gift from the gods.

_She could come back and lift her skirts, and I still wouldn't be interested tonight_, Horace grumbled. What he needed was an emergency escape route, but how in the name of the Nine was he going to accomplish that? He finished off his cider and cursed beneath his breath as he kicked his boots aside, realizing that playing both sides against the middle would likely get him lynched. Still, he'd always gambled with both his money and name, and he would do so again as long as he could stack the deck in his favor.

"Have dinner sent to me room." Horace frowned, realizing that Mehrunes had returned and was speaking with a servant in the hallway beyond his bedroom doors. Where had the prince been all day? It was partly a relief that the daedra had left Arelius alone, but who knew what kind of grudge the prince might bear now that he was back. The captain was lucky that he'd walked away with all of his limbs attached after challenging Mehrunes, whose ideas of revenge were likely a total bitch, but still, he wasn't the only one for Horace to fear.

Horace listened for the faint click of shutting doors before retrieving several sheets of paper from his desk, and opening an inkblot. His quill worked furiously as he carefully composed a handful of letters to friends and family, all of whom were selected for their clear allegiance to either the Council or the imperial throne. He would, of course, be discreet, but his artful words were those of a man concerned about the loyalties of his visiting friend, who had pressured Horace into housing him by calling on old debts. He was sure that his story sounded convincing, especially since his debts—plus those that his mother had left him—were no secret among the court.

"Love letters, Horace?" The diplomat barely restrained himself from jumping as his bedroom doors swung open, and his quill slowed as he took in the sight of Mehrunes. The prince stood in his doorway, tunic loose and feet bare as a mocking smile crept up the man's features. "How long did our friends stay?"

"Not long, although longer than a search should have taken," Horace stated. "You seem to be in a better mood." He gingerly finished signing his name on the last letter and stood the quill in the inkblot. As much as his fingers itched to rush, he maintained his leisurely manner as he folded the small stack of papers beside him, each crease concealing his words and intentions.

"Today was...satisfying," Mehrunes allowed with a furtive smile, arms folded behind his back as he strolled forward to the edge of the desk. "I know that it's tempting to forget who I am when I look like this, Horace, but need I remind someone of your upbringing about proper etiquette?" Horace immediately stood, angry with himself for having failed to rise when Mehrunes entered the room, for when servants or others were about, they forwent protocol, but now they were alone.

"My apologies, my lord," he automatically sounded.

"I have been lenient, Horace, even if I am no fan of formality. Never forget that I am a prince, and you a low ranking aristocrat." _How could I?_ "Have a seat. I'm not here to lecture you on your behavior," Mehrunes continued with a scoff. "I've come to remind you that the moon will be perfect in four days, and then we'll part ways, but not before I decide on your reward. Your services will not be forgotten if they're fruitful, human."

"Thank you, my lord. I am honored." Mehrunes snorted in disbelief.

"Your lies are such honey," the prince mused with a dark smile. "But don't be foolish, Horace. I may soon leave, but with the sphere back in my possession, I'll be more powerful than ever. The imperial line won't stand a chance, and Ruined Cloak will periodically visit the city to continue his assignments. You _will_ house him."

"Yes, my lord." But Horace had never heard such a repulsive suggestion in his life. "Will we soon seize our enemies then, my lord?"

"But of course," Mehrunes grinned. "I always like to get in the first punch."

*****************

I'm sorry for the long break in updating! I'll do my best to keep the wait shorter next time, and anyway, enjoy and leave your comments. Also, I realize that the scene with Tamil might seem a bit more in depth than necessary, but I like sliding in pieces of her past, and I'm considering spinning a much shorter tale on her and Ralyn when I'm finished with this story. Consider it me testing the waters for how I like the two characters interacting, and maybe some of you have comments on it as well.


	41. Chapter 41: The Blood Falls

Chapter 40: The Blood Falls

"Either I've caught a thief, or my Blade has returned." Arelius stepped into the darkened kitchen and allowed his eyes to adjust to the shadows, the windows having been shuttered and locked for the night. "Thinking about your favorite opponent?" he asked, moving to stand behind Tamil. The woman's back was facing him as she sat at the kitchen counter, fork lightly scraping a plate as she shoveled fried potatoes into her mouth. His eyes flickered over the bandage wrapped around her palm, but he quickly dismissed the possibility of a serious injury.

"He's human," Tamil said. "So that's one less complication for me to worry about." She finished her impromptu meal and turned in her chair, arms resting casually on her knees as she smiled. "Have you any idea what time it is, sir?"

"Far too late or early depending on how you look at it," he replied. She seemed amused by his casual trousers and loose tunic, for he rarely presented himself so informally, but he'd been in bed. It was Lucretia's spell that had alerted him to an intruder, else he would have stayed awake waiting for this report rather than sleeping. "Where have you been, besides the sewers?"

"I did not mean to keep you waiting, sir," Tamil apologized. "But I wanted to investigate my 'favorite opponent' as you so call him. Turns out that the fetcher drinks blood and practices some sort of arcane blood rites. He's not undead, but he comes damn close."

"I've seen a lot," Arelius contemplated. "But I've never heard of such a thing. Are you still confident that you can handle him?" Tamil quickly nodded, the spark back in her eyes.

"He won't escape me another time," came her confident promise. "After consulting an old friend, I went back to the sewers to lay some of my old tricks. Now I'm waiting for your command." Arelius knew that the woman was capable, but as he examined her hardened, determined face, he considered that she too was becoming too emotionally entangled in this job. Portia was already guarding against emotional responses, but Tamil was less cautious than her fellow Blade when it came to personal safety. She would see the ax falling and try to run beneath it rather than slowing to a halt, and Arelius knew that one day it would cost her.

"We're going after Mehrunes and Horace," he told her.

"_Mehrunes_ and Horace?" she immediately questioned, posture straightening in interest.

"Cassius is an assumed name and body. Portia is convinced that he's Mehrunes, and I must agree that the evidence is compelling."

"And does a daedric prince bleed and die like everything else?" Tamil asked, voice low and uncertain as she stood. "I've heard that daedra are merely reborn and never die, but an actual god...? What are you planning to do, sir?"

"Arrest the two of them and see what happens. We can execute the Dawn members for treason, and as for the prince...if we force him to return to Oblivion, we'll have accomplished our task, but I'd be willing to try lobbing his head off along with Horace's. The evidence that you gathered from the basement will be enough for the watch commander to side with us on all matters, so I must congratulate you on that."

"We move tomorrow then," Tamil guessed.

"We move as soon as the blood drinker is removed. I can't use normal Blades or guards to arrest or hold Horace and Mehrunes until that man is killed. You know how skilled he is, and I won't needlessly throw away lives. Putting guards up against that would be completely irresponsible. You go to kill the man with first light when a night prowler like himself won't expect it, and once he's dead, I'll take care of the rest."

"Any directives on method?" Tamil probed, voice hanging expectantly.

"I believe that you know how best to handle the situation," Arelius admitted. She had experience in disposing of people that he lacked, and he'd already decided to give her free reign in this execution. "No witnesses, but I don't need to tell you that." He could almost feel Tamil morphing into a more aggressive and crueler person as she stood, her mind no doubt fixed on the dawn. This side of her was what had made his superior question the decision to accept Tamil, but through the years, Arelius had learned that the hard, calculating edge of an experienced killer was little different than his own behavior when hunting an enemy. They both accepted violence when necessary and would strike with preemptive bloodshed. He merely used the law and the emperor's sanction to justify his actions.

"I'm going to lure him into the sewers and finish him there," Tamil stated, almost whispering into the dark. "I'll return when finished, sir."

"Be careful, Tamil. If you're injured down there, help will be a long time coming, and if you stumble into a canal, we'll likely never even find your remains. You're on your own." He didn't allow his voice to soften or convey his genuine concern for her welfare as he extended a hand to clasp hers in a farewell gesture. "The Nine guide you, Blade."

"And you, sir. I'll not fail." She departed, and Arelius returned to bed, although he did not fall asleep. The next few hours would either be a great achievement or a tragic loss.

**********************

"Four days, my lord," Ruined Cloak reminded the pacing prince, who twirled a dagger as the night hours drew to a close. "We know where we need to strike, and I yearn for your blessing to dispatch our enemies." Mehrunes stopped walking and turned to look at his servant, a slow, methodical rhythm set to his knife-work. He had long been waiting for this moment.

"_I_ will be the one to seize Portia," he sharply reminded Ruined Cloak.

"I am well aware of that, my lord. I would never dream of touching one reserved for yourself, but there is another whose blood I crave."

"The dunmer," Mehrunes knowingly voiced.

"She is with them, my lord, and she will attempt to stop you from taking Portia. She might even return here for retribution." Mehrunes didn't really give a damn if the elf came after Horace once he was gone, but he did pause to consider Ruined Cloak's unspoken suggestion.

"You want her very badly, don't you?" he seriously asked, watching as Ruined Cloak's hooded head bowed slightly in acknowledgment. "Then she is yours. Consider it a reward for your services, but don't wait here. You suspect that she stays close to Arelius and Portia, so go find her. I want her dead so that she cannot interfere with my plans. Bring me proof of her death by tonight, before sunset, because I won't be here afterwards." He had plans to find and permanently detain Portia once darkness fell, for once the elf was gone, he knew of no one that would cause problems. Arelius could try, but the man had shown no inclination for breaking the law or violence as of yet.

"My lord, I am most gracious."

"How could I not honor another man's bloodlust?" the prince asked, lips twitching upward. "Enjoy her, mortal, and if you should kill others in Arelius's household while you are hunting her, I've no complaints. Just don't lead Arelius or his lackeys here."

"My lord." Ruined Cloak bowed and quickly departed with his customary silence and stealth, leaving Mehrunes to continue pacing. The last vestiges of night still gripped the city, and that gave his servant plenty of time to catch the enemy stronghold unawares. With any luck, the death toll would be high and force the Blades to retreat for a few days. That would give him ample opportunity to revel in the revelation that he would soon visit upon Portia. He hoped that she decided to fight rather than run, for he'd hate for her to disappoint him now.

***********************

Tamil stood at the top of the stairs, and cracked a doorway open to stare into darkness. The sewers were quiet, and so was Horace's basement, for even rats avoided this area. She could imagine why as she risked stepping inside, knowing that any noise could draw out her prey. Maybe he was asleep, which would explain the lack of candles or lanterns, but as she dared to move deeper into the basement, she found no one. The entire floor was deserted, meaning that her plan to injure her enemy and then lure him into combat wouldn't work. Where the hell could he be?

Tamil retreated back to the sewers, wavering between waiting to see if the dark figure returned, or looking for him elsewhere, but where would he have gone in newly born daylight? She'd only ever encountered him at night, and at odd hours, convincing her that he was most active after sundown, but this...

She moved into another chamber and eyed three different archways. Each led to a different section of the city's underbelly, and if her enemy had left the basement, he'd have been forced to choose one of them. There was simply no other underground exit from Horace's manor, and so she moved to the first archway, finding a thin string that she'd loosely strung across the center of the doorway to still be intact. The next was also intact, as she well knew, for she'd ducked beneath it in coming here, having entered the sewers from the Market District where the sound of a moving grate was less likely to be heard by nearby residents. That left the last doorway, and Tamil's red eyes narrowed dangerously when she noticed the string laying on the ground. No rat had done that, for she'd strung the thread too high for them to reach.

_Damn it. He wouldn't..._

Tamil began running as she tracked her broken strings, each fallen thread marking a clear trail through the subterranean world with its echoing corridors and filthy, slick pathways. She already had her dagger unsheathed, and worried less about stealth as she moved at breakneck speed, her instincts telling her that something was very, very wrong. These corridors only led in one direction, and that was toward the aristocratic, residential areas of the city.

*********************

Lucretia folded the last shirt and gently tucked it into a large box. The children had been ordered to remain with their grandparents for another week and a half, and she needed to send them heavier clothing for that time. The cool air would be biting through their thin cloaks by now, and the last thing she wanted was for them to catch a cold and be confined to bed while on a trip. Sick children were a full time job, and her boys more than others given their propensity for troublemaking when trapped in enclosed spaces for any length of time. Forcing that on her parents seemed rather cruel.

"I'm sure that the boys aren't causing too much trouble, my lady," her favorite maid assured. The old woman was helping to bring winter clothing out of storage.

"I should hope so. My father is an old stickler for punishment, and he does not deal with their shenanigans very well." The servant shook with laughter as she opened a wardrobe and began removing thin dresses. It was a lovely morning for work, with the morning sun helping to heat the room and brightly shining through the open windows.

"I remember when they threw flour all over the kitchen last fall," the maid recounted. "I could have killed the little terrors. Of course, I mean no offense, my lady."

"None taken. They can get out of hand when Arelius is away from home for long periods. Take this stack of clothing downstairs to the basement. There should be a crate that's already opened and half-filled."

"As you wish." The servant disappeared with her charge, and Lucretia finished tying her package shut with a distant smile, the edges of which were tainted with worry. She would never show or admit it before the staff, but she wanted her boys home as much as she wanted them away in the countryside. People were still watching the house, but less often as of late, and she only over sensed two individuals now. In her experience, reprieves like this were often deceptive, for the enemy might be slackening their vigil because they were closer to what they wanted. One servant girl had already been killed, giving much of the staff and that dear servant boy reason to watch their backs. Best that they did, for in this place, innocent mistakes could mean death.

Lucretia spun around and strolled to the window, her blue gown brushing the floor as she moved, and one hand moving to straighten the twine belt at her waist. She unconsciously put an extra swing into her hips to make her gait more feminine and striking, even in private, and she knew that she looked beautiful as the morning sun greeted her. She rarely awoke this early, for it was a time of day when only servants and workers were active, but Arelius had risen earlier than usual, and she with him. Now he was at the commander's office, preparing a cell for new and dangerous arrivals.

"And the sun rose to warm the earth," she recited. "But it's warmth was fleeting—always turning its back when the day was done." She wished that her spells could work during the day, but a barrier or detect life spell was all but useless when the entire household was up and moving. People were constantly in and out of the building, and Tamil might swing in an odd entrance at any hour, making for unnecessary alarms. During the day, she was forced to solely rely on eyes and ears.

_Creak._

Lucretia's eyes darted to the door, which had begun to swing shut of its own accord, and she moved to prop it open. The heavy wood was always swinging shut on her. She simply had to get it fixed, or so she told herself for the umpteenth time as she pushed it outward against the hallway wall before returning to her wardrobe.

_Boots, cloaks, velvet dresses, gloves...there should be a chest of shawls somewhere.._.

_Creak._

"That door," she complained, hearing it close yet again. "I swear. The servants never know if they can enter or not with that thing." She moved to open it yet again, a bit annoyed with the situation, and prepared to call on a servant to fetch a doorstop, but the words never left her mouth. The door hit the wall, and her lips parted in surprise, a gasp escaping her as a figure cloaked entirely in black blocked her vision. Even his hands were gloved—every inch of flesh concealed.

"Who are...?" A hand closed around her throat and forced her backward into the room as the door closed with a shrill creak behind them. Lucretia fought for air, futilely clawing at the figure's arms as her feet stumbled backward, and then her back hit the edge of a circular table, the wood pressing painfully into her spine. Her fingers reached beneath her attacker's hood to scratch the man's eyes, hoping to blind such a vulnerable area and make him release her, but he merely used his free hand to swat hers aside.

"Where is the dunmer?" an even, almost monotone voice asked, the figure bringing his hidden face close to hers. "Tell me and I won't make you suffer." His leather gloves were cool against her throat, his fingers much stronger than she would have guessed from his slender build, and she knew that he could easily crush her throat with one hand. She feared that he meant to do just that as her windpipe was forced shut, but then his grip loosened enough for her to answer, and Lucretia frantically searched her mind for a spell that would remove him from her.

"Leave now, and my husband won't tear your limbs off," she hissed through her sore throat. She could see nothing beneath the hood, but she could smell the man's breath, and it reeked of blood.

"Woman," the man warned, a dagger dropping out of his sleeve and into his right hand. "I can make this very slow."

"There is no dunmer here," Lucretia boldly lied. "They're uncouth imports from Morrowind, and I would never have them staying at my home." The knife came up to her left cheek, the tip resting right against the corner of her eye, and then slowly sliding down toward her jawline, leaving a thin trail of blood in its wake. The cut wasn't deep, but it burned, an itching sensation creeping into her skin and making her want to claw at her own face, but she would not. Her head was held as high as she could manage as the knife reached her chin, the tip painfully twisting into her skin. And the man, he merely cocked his head to the side, as if intrigued by her response, and moved the knife to her stomach. The point pressed into the smooth fabric of her dress, easily severing threads as he opened a slit in the clothing. Creamy flesh peaked out from beneath it, and now the knife was resting gently against her bare body.

"You will tell me where the elf is," he carefully enunciated, as if nothing else could possibly happen.

"Fine," Lucretia swallowed, one of her hands moving behind the folds of her dress to grope for the object that she knew lay on the table behind her. "But only if you let me live." The knife pressed into her stomach, sinking in by but an inch as she resisted the urge to squirm. It would only widen the wound, and she was so very close to...

"My lady, look what I found!" The door flew open to reveal Pyrus, the boy's hands cupped to cradle a baby bird, but his joyful expression quickly turned to horror as he stared at Ruined Cloak, who stared back "Help! Portia! Portia! He has a knife!" Lucretia took her chance and whipped a candelabra into the air, the heavy metal coming down hard on Ruined Cloak's head as she pushed him away.

"Run, Pyrus!" she yelled, lifting her dress and running for the door. "Run!" But a hand grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backward with such force that her eyes watered. She began reciting a spell, but was thrown to the floor, and she could feel the man standing over her, his dark presence seeping into her bones like a winter chill. On hands and knees, she looked up to see Pyrus frantically yelling for help as he ran down the hallway, and then the door began to slowly close, the creak tearing at her ears as pain overtook her body.

********************

Portia heard a scream as she dashed down the hall, her sword out and ready as panicked hands tore open the door to Lucretia's bedroom. There was a cloaked man there, one of his hands holding Lucretia off of the floor by the front of her dress, and the other thrusting a dagger deep into the woman's stomach. Portia watched the blade disappear into flesh as Lucretia's eyes widened in pain, blood running from her mouth, and hands beating weakly against the man's chest.

"Get away from her!" Portia roared, fear gnawing at her as she heedlessly threw herself at the cloaked man. He dropped Lucretia and dodged the wild, thoughtless blow that Portia sought to deliver, moving with unnatural speed for a human as she took another swing.

"I cannot touch you," the man stated, sounding utterly calm as he lifted a hand. There were unfamiliar words in Portia's ears, and then her vision deserted her, the sudden plunge into darkness sending her reeling in confusion. "You bear another's mark."

"Come near us and die!" Portia yelled, holding her sword aloft, but unmoving lest she do more damage to friend than foe in her current state. She didn't even have time to wonder if the blindness was permanent as she helplessly turned in circles, but there was no sound, and no one moved to attack her. She could only assume that the enemy had fled, and then she heard the heavy breathing on the floor near her feet.

"Lucretia!" Her sword clattered to the floor, and she fell to her knees, hands groping outward until they located the woman's body. She pressed palms against the wound in Lucretia's abdomen as true panic began to seize her, her breeches soaking up fallen blood as she worked. This was someone who had housed her without question, helped her, protected her, and there hadn't been a single complaint about the dangers that Portia's presence presented. Now...Portia could barely think as she felt warm blood seep through her fingers, and her throat constricted as she fumbled to tear a piece of Lucretia's dress to bind the wound.

"Is she okay?" a small, scared voice asked from behind her.

"Oh my god!"

"Fetch a healer, a potion, anything!" Portia ordered. "Find Arelius." Gods, but Arelius would be coming back soon. Would Lucretia live long enough to see him? Portia felt tears fall as she thought of costing the man his wife. Gilthan was already gone, and now this. At least there'd been no family to deal with when her friend had died, but this...

"Damn it!" Tamil's voice loudly cursed, and Portia heard a loud crash, as if a table had been overturned. "Fetching son of a bitch! Damn! Damn! Damn!"

"Lucretia," Portia spoke. "We're going to get you help. Just hang on a little while longer." There was no response as her fingers fumbled to clasp the other woman's shaking hands. Why was it always those least involved that suffered the most?

*********************

Lucretia was laying on her bed, a blanket tucked up around her waist as her breath came in shallow bursts. Her cheek was discolored by poison, and she could barely lift her arms, but she was alive, and even with a face pale as fresh snow, she managed to lightly smile at her husband. He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand enclosed over hers, and the other softly stroking her loose, black hair. The action seemed to calm her, as she titled her head into his touch, and every few minutes, Arelius would retrieve a warm, damp cloth from a basin beside the bed, and soothingly wash the wounds left tender by a healing potion.

_Three potions, and one healer,_ Portia regretfully recounted. She walked into the room with two steaming mugs, the first herbal tea, and the second warm cider for Arelius. The servants could have brought it, but Portia couldn't stand the thought of merely sitting in her room while Lucretia wavered between life and death. The woman was incredibly weak from both the treatments and the attack, but four hours had seen her eyes open and a request for water. In that entire time, Arelius had not left her side once.

"I'll leave these here," Portia softly commented, refusing to make eye contact with Arelius as she set down the mugs. Then she retreated to the door as quickly as possible, pulling it shut behind her, and heading to her own bedroom. Tamil was nowhere to be seen, but the elf was in a fit of agitation the likes of which Portia had never seen. The dunmer had literally begged Arelius to allow her to leave and find the culprit, but his refusal had been sharp. No one was in any position to enter mortal combat on such recklessly hungry emotions.

_Arelius_, Portia sadly thought, leaning her forehead against her bedroom door as she shut it. Lucretia had almost died, and all due to her presence here. That man would never have come here if not for the chaos sphere, although he had refused to fight her. _Another's mark_, she recalled, one hand moving to rest on her scarred hip. So he had specifically come to hurt the others. Would he return?

"I can't stay here," Portia breathed, voice constrained as the sphere sent a soft warmth through her body, but even it could not distract her. She grabbed a bag and shoved numerous belongings into it before slinging it over her shoulder and marching downstairs.

"Where are you going, my lady?" a servant asked.

"I'm leaving." She was on the street in no time, unsure of where she was heading, but content to wander for the time being. She knew of no one that would offer a place to stay, and she would refuse them even if they did offer, but perhaps she didn't need a roof above her head. She could leave the city all together, and leave Mehrunes grappling for her location. Arelius would hunt down their enemies, especially after the attack on his wife, and since he knew where Horace and Mehrunes were, her presence was no longer needed. Yes, perhaps...

_You didn't even apologize to him, Portia_.

She stopped walking and blankly stared ahead of her, eyes unseeing as people passed her. She hadn't said a word to Arelius since he'd returned home to find his wife in the throes of death—not one, single word. But what would she say?

"Portia!" She spun, immediately recognizing Tamil as the dunmer came racing after her down the street. "What do you think you're doing?" The elf's red eyes were still fired, and she sounded more than a bit annoyed with her companion as Portia steeled herself for a confrontation. Tamil looked ready to lash out at anyone who messed with her.

"I can't stay there anymore, Tamil. You saw what happened."

"Don't be stupid," the elf vehemently protested. "I was the one to draw that bastard out, not you, and Lucretia wants to speak with you."

"She's already talking?" Portia asked, relieved. "How's Arelius?"

"You can come see for yourself."

"Tamil..."

"I'll drag you back, Portia, and whether or not you're conscious doesn't matter to me. Arelius told me to bring you back, and that's what I'm going to do, so get your ass moving. Lucretia needs to rest, but she insists on seeing you first." Portia knew that Tamil wouldn't ignore orders, and refusing the elf would be downright dangerous, comrades or not. Slowly, she nodded and followed the dunmer back toward the house. For a split second, the edge of her vision caught a dark, velvet dress on a tall, slim figure that looked decidedly out of place in this area, but then the woman was gone. Had someone in such attire really just gone into an alley? Portia dismissed the sight and the strange magic that she felt in the air as her feet drearily treaded onward, back toward the people who were suffering for her sake. Behind her, a lone mage watched her go, cursing that she'd just missed the perfect opportunity.

*****************

"He stabbed me in the stomach when he could have finish me with a slice of my throat," Lucretia dully spoke, voice faint. "What a cruel man."

"We should be thankful that he wanted you to die slowly, or you wouldn't be here," Arelius soothed, sadly studying the black and green colors marring the cut on his wife's beautiful face. She seemed to sense his gaze, for she made a strange, choked sound within her throat that could have been a sigh.

"Will my cheek fully heal?" she whispered.

"Your face and vanity will recover, my love," Arelius lovingly smiled.

"You and your jokes," she weakly reprimanded, although she almost smiled. He was stroking the back of her hand with his fingertips, caressing her skin to comfort her as her eyes slid shut of their own accord. "Will she come?"

"She will," he assured. "Portia has a difficult time being involved in incidents like this, but she will come. Her sense of responsibility won't let her ignore your summons. She may have grown more independent and disillusioned over the years, but some things don't change." Lucretia made no response, tired as she was, but there was a knock at the door, and Arelius invited the person inside. He was not surprised to see Portia standing there, blood from wrapping Lucretia's stomach still staining the front of her shirt and the knees of her pants.

"Portia," he greeted, standing. "My wife wishes to speak with you." He walked closer to her and, without permission, grabbed the strap of her bag and pulled it from her shoulder. "You will not be needing this, Blade. Your duties are still here." She looked ready to flinch at his words, but instead, she met his gaze with only a moment's hesitation.

"I was doing what I thought best."

"Disappearing is never the best option. I'd have thought that you'd already learned that." Now her eyes lowered, and he hadn't seen her this open to his chastisement in a long time. He did not mean to sound hard, but he would not be soft on her for nearly making the same mistake twice. When Gilthan had died, she'd seemed to handle it exceptionally well, but this...he took in her beseeching, green eyes, and then laid a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sir," she told him, eyes trailing over to the bed.

"There is nothing to apologize for," he told her, voice melting into a calming, steady tone. "What happened was beyond anyone's control. Rest easy, Portia. I have been blessed to see my family prosper unmolested for even this long." He stepped back to wait at a distance as the woman then approached his wife, sitting on the edge of the bed where he had been a moment before. He could barely make out the quiet conversation, but it reached him in the silent room, and his heart swelled with appreciation as his wife seemed to reach Portia in a way that he, in his station, could not.

"I'm sorry for bringing this to your home, Lucretia," Portia apologized. "I think it would be best if I leave so that nothing else happens."

"No." That seemed to catch Portia off guard as Lucretia's eyes fluttered open. "We will not cower." One of her hands found Portia's and gave a light squeeze. "I will not look weak for anyone—not a killer, not a god—and neither should you. Scars, Portia. What right do I have to avoid a single one when you and Arelius bleed for the empire?"

"I'm not doing this for the empire," Portia corrected her.

"You do it for people then—for yourself. It doesn't matter. They must never think that they've broken us. You will stay in this house." As if to confirm her words, Arelius was at the door, ordering a servant to take Portia's bag back to her room. Then he turned to find both women looking at him, but Lucretia only barely as her eyelids again threatened to close.

"What would you have me do, sir?" Portia asked, face downturned but stern.

"When was the last time you arrested someone?"


	42. Chapter 42: Unspoken Truths

Chapter 41: Unspoken Truths

Evening was drawing closer, the sun just beginning to sink beneath the horizon, and oranges and reds scattering across the underbellies of clouds. It might have been a beautiful sight, but its beauty was lost on Arelius as he strapped on his gauntlets. Lucretia was in bed, Portia was attending her, and Tamil had vanished immediately after bringing Portia back to the manor. He could guess where the elf had gone as his brisk strides led him toward the palace, and where she now went, there would be blood. Even if he'd ordered the dunmer to resist temptation, she would have ignored his words, and he wasn't inclined to deny her anyway. More blood would inevitably be shed, and it damn well wouldn't flow from his allies or family after tonight.

"Sir, what are our orders?" Arelius didn't even glance at the three guards accompanying him as the palace walls drew higher above them. He only had eyes for the large, double doors that would lead him to tonight's pre-festival activities, for his enemies were not at home, and he was certain that Horace would attend the event.

"We are here to arrest Horace Pantrov and Cassius Matrino," he told his men. "Use any and all necessary force if they resist." His boots loudly struck the marble floor as they entered the building, sounds of merriment drawing them forward, and other guards dipping their heads in greeting. Familiar with Arelius as they were, they stood ready, sensing that the palace captain was strictly on business tonight.

"Fan out," Arelius ordered. "You two, take that hallway and ensure that neither man slips by us. You, circle the edges of the party, but do not attempt to arrest either man without backup. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," three voices echoed, and they departed on their tasks, Arelius striding directly through a large doorway and into the midst of the revelry. It was a small party really, and more for talking and eating than dancing or drinking. There wasn't even music as Arelius cut through the crowd, eyes searching each face with grim determination as guests eyed him curiously. The tension in the air as he passed was most palpable, and he made no move to quiet it or the rumors beginning to spread through the crowd. Where was that slimy, son of a....?

"Can you believe that a captain of the guard would burst into my home like that?" a strong voice carried. Arelius parted a group of talking woman so that he could see the speaker, and sure enough, there stood Horace, handsome features twisted in disgust as he recounted his tale to several men. The fetters were already loose when the nobleman turned his head and saw the captain, shock lighting his eyes, and the drink drawing toward his lips stopping midair.

"Horace Pantrov," Arelius began, supremely pleased by the other man's obvious discomfort. "You're under arrest for conspiring against the empire, harboring enemies of the state, and attempting or assisting murder." Arresting someone had seldom been more satisfying.

******************

Mehrunes downed another glass of brandy as he waved a servant away, annoyed that time was again dragging at another social event. He wouldn't have even come had Horace not argued the wisdom of being out of the house after the attack on Arelius, who had already accosted them once. The captain had avoided confrontation before, but now the game had changed, for Ruined Cloak had killed the man's wife, and these mortal soldiers and knights loved the idea of avenging someone as surely as his dremora did. In both realms, challenging and fighting to the death over some wrong was not unheard of, even if chivalry and honor had less to do with it than rage and indignation in Oblivion's case. After all, putting an opponent in a position of surrender and subservience was a key element in the strict order of the Deadlands, for respect and fear went hand in hand.

Bored, the prince began meandering back over to Horace, but his attention was elsewhere. There was a window cut high in the ceiling, and as soon as the last traces of sunlight vanished, so too would he, for Portia was waiting. He would either meet with or find her on his own terms tonight, and his blood and its inherent magicka hummed longingly with the thought. He wasn't entirely sure what he would do to her, but the uncertainty and numerous possibilities only sharpened his anticipation as he heard Horace harshly addressing someone.

"Speak of a daedra. You've already embarrassed me once, captain; are you here to do it again, and on such ridiculous claims?" Mehrunes stopped walking and wisely ducked behind a cluster of people, all of whom were watching the unfolding spectacle before them. So Arelius was here, and the man was actually clamping Horace's hands into iron bracers. The prince glowered, nearly breaking the fragile glass stem in his hands as he began melting into the room's shadows.

"Come quietly, prisoner," Arelius ordered. "Guards! Hold him while I find the other man." Mehrunes scoffed at the idea of being arrested by ignorant mortals who would quake in their boots if they knew his true identity, but he still retreated, knowing that his plans teetered on destruction. He needed to find Portia, and he needed to find her now.

"You," he pointed, pulling a server aside by the collar. "Tell the good captain that the man he seeks left with a woman. You don't know her name, but she lives in Talos Plaza." He thrust a bag of coins into the man's hands for emphasis, and then strode away, the other guests milling about in confusion and forming a human curtain to block his exit from sight. By the time his pursuers checked the hallway, he was long gone.

* * *

Someone was in the house. Of that, Ruined Cloak was certain, for he could sense the person's presence as he ascended the basement stairs. Perhaps his master and Horace had returned early, but he doubted that as he recalled Mehrunes' mood before leaving, for the prince had been short-tempered, impatient, and predatory. Even the servants had sensed and shrunk from the daedra's presence, and Ruined Cloak knew that the Imperial woman was to blame for the wild energy whirling about his master. His lord was planning something, and tonight the puzzle pieces would come together.

Ruined Cloak soundlessly sealed the basement door and stole through the house, checking each room for intruders as he went. Truth be told, he hadn't savored fresh blood in days, and was therefore craving an excuse to kill, for there'd been no time to collect from the woman with hair like black silk. The beauty had fought against him, but her attempts to fend him off with magicka had failed, and he was certain that she'd bled to death hours ago. If only his master's obsession hadn't entered the room!

Yes, his lord had an obsession, but Ruined Cloak wasn't one to disapprove. For one, it wasn't his place, and being fixated on an enemy made the kill that much more potent and memorable. It was a concept that rang true with someone who had taken countless lives, for he himself could remember few of his kills, unworthy as many of them had been. There was, of course, one woman whose heart he would love to squeeze, forcing her lifeblood to flow through his fingers, and tasting her essence on his tongue. When it happened, he would not squander the opportunity.

He stepped into the living room and found the fire crackling in its hearth, the heat passing across his cloak as a knife appeared in his hand. There should be no activity here, no...

"Looking for me?" His hood turned toward the voice to find a dark elf gracefully draped in a chair, a long dagger carelessly tapping against one of her knees. In the firelight, her red eyes glowed dangerously, and she'd even helped herself to Horace's alcohol, but the hooded slant of her eyes was misleading. She was far from sleepy or lethargic as she waited for a response, and Ruined Cloak almost laughed when she impatiently tilted her head. "Well?"

"I was about to come looking for you," his voice droned. "But you've saved me the trouble." He lunged, and she flew from the chair, neatly flipping over its back as his dagger sunk into a cushion. Stuffing tore free as the blade pulled out, one of his hands sweeping outward to knock the chair sideways, and giving him a clear path toward Tamil. She had her own weapons out—twin short swords—and she raised them from where she lurked on the room's edges, slowing circling him with the wall to her back.

Ruined Cloak turned in time with her, their uneasy truce broken only by the crackle of the fireplace as they waited upon one another. The seconds ticked by, feet silently moving, and weapons at the ready, the pace clashing maddeningly with the speed of Tamil's pulse, which Ruined Cloak could adoringly gauge in his imagination as his own heart remained steady. He would give her something to make her heart burst in reprimand for her arrogance in coming here.

With a sharp word, his hand raised and chains of fire flew from his fingertips, lashing outward like whips as they scorchingly swept across the room, but the elf was indeed fast. She dropped to the floor, beneath the seeking flames, and threw a dagger, the approaching glint of which Ruined Cloak caught in the firelight. With a mellow intake of breath, he looked down to find the blade imbedded in his torso, blood beginning to soak into his dark robes.

Grabbing the blade, he pulled it loose and dropped it onto the floor. If the dunmer thought that she could disable him with such tactics, she was sorely mistaken.

* * *

It was dark by the time Portia began her journey toward the imperial prison, and the city was coming alive with candlelight. Every window, step, and balcony was lined with candles, family members slowly taking turns lighting them, and others setting up large displays on the stone bases of neighborhood statues or around front doors. In an old tradition, patrolling guards stopped and used their torches to relight any wicks that had gone out, and occasionally music filtered onto the streets as people sang hymns to their ancestors or popular familial deities. It was a night where most people adopted a more solemn attitude to honor the dead, and as befitted Queen Mother's day, the palace would be alight with more candles than any other building.

"A blessing, ma'am?" a soft voice asked, and Portia turned to see a male beggar regarding her with large, brown eyes.

"What would you ask of me?" Portia asked, aware that the man was eyeing the two candles that she carried.

"Light one for the poor. We don't like to be forgotten just 'cause we've no family." Portia nodded and continued on her course, having refused to accompany Arelius on his mission once he requested that she take command of several guards and block the palace exits. It was a necessary task, but one that he could do perfectly well himself, as he well knew.

_He just wants to push me_, Portia thought, approaching the statue of Talos at the center of the district bearing his name. Already, the base was littered with candles of all shapes and sizes, and wax drippings collected in colorful puddles. It really was beautiful, especially the enchanted candles that emitted sparks or curls of colorful, fragrant smoke, filling the air with spice as people paid their respects. Within the next few hours, the entire city would dance with candlelight, and she too would add her contribution.

Portia paused in her journey, and set her two candles at the base of the statue. She'd wanted to light these at Gilthan's grave, but it wasn't yet erected, so she'd settle for this. Using another candle, she lit her own, the first for the beggars that had been murdered by the Dawn, and the second for Gilthan, who should never have died. The ritual was something that Portia hadn't expected to partake in, but Lucretia had insisted that she required little assistance, and Arelius expected his Blade to meet him at the prison. If all went well, he'd have two prisoners with him, and Portia could only imagine what would happen when Mehrunes looked to find her playing as one of his captors, and it _was_ playing. No one believed that they could hold a daedra like him—least of all her—and she wondered what the consequences would be.

_Death_, her mind whispered, and she found herself relieved that she'd rejected Arelius's call for aid in the arrest. She would have gone, but not if it required leading other guards. She could see what her openly manipulative leader was attempting to do, and she did not appreciate that he'd played this card so soon after Lucretia's attack. Perhaps he'd thought that she would take up the duty out of obligation, but he was wrong on that account, and she'd let him know. As if her past and Gilthan's death hadn't already taught her enough.

_Time to go. _

She gave her candles one more, silent prayer, and kept moving, feeling encased in shadows despite the dazzling displays around her. Hopefully Pyrus was finding some cheer in the festivities, for before Portia left the house, Lucretia had been insisting that the manor put on a good show. With the nobility, it was a matter of familial pride to outdo one another. Stupid, if you asked someone like Portia, but she had more important issues to dwell on as she walked—Cassius, for one.

She was thinking about him when she sensed someone watching her, the conspicuous touch of prying eyes prickling up her back as she entered the market district. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no one, but remained anxious to dispel the sensation through the more active nightlife of the merchants. Like the waterfront, travelers and younger people gathered here for the evening, lighting candles for homes and family graves faraway, or buying ale and drinking away the recollections that the festival summoned. The few people who continued to work this night ran small street stands, and several guards stood ready with buckets of water, knowing that the wayward crates of the market sometimes caught fire due to unwisely placed candles.

_What if Arelius couldn't find Horace, Cassius, or both?_ Portia considered the possibility as the creeping sensation persisted, and it made her recall Mehrunes' promise to find her tonight. What if he was here? She kept her eyes peeled for trouble as she quickened her step, the center of the district just ahead, and near that, the bridge to the prison.

Cassius, Mehrunes. Mehrunes, Cassius.

"Hey!" Her cry was quickly cut off as she was violently yanked beneath a dark archway, the hand going for her sword waylaid by a spell that was quickly draining her energy. What the hell was going on? Someone was pulling her away from the milling people and into one of the small courtyards that dotted the city, but she could not make out her attacker's face, and as she attempted to call for help, no words escaped her mouth.

Swallowing hard, her sluggish limbs weakly struggled as she was unceremoniously dumped onto the grass, head hitting a rock as she fell, and making her vision erupt in pain.

"This should get Traven off of my back," a silky, feminine voice dripped, and Portia twisted her face upward, squinting into the faint light afforded by the candles that lined the courtyard's short walls and well. The black hair and tall physique...she'd seen this woman before. "Nothing personal, Imperial," the woman's voice continued. "You've drawn the attention of the wrong people. Too bad for you."

_Traven_, Portia inwardly sneered, hand itching to grab her sword, but the limb wouldn't respond. Instinctually, she opened her connection with the sphere, its power comforting her as the satisfied looking Altmer above her kicked her hand away from her scabbard. Damn this bitch, and damn Traven. There was no way that she could fight without control of her body, but the sphere was not bound by her enemy's spell. Perhaps...

Portia surrendered to the strengthening connection and felt Mehrunes' familiar spirit reach for her, his presence molding against hers with a possessive grasp. She didn't even fight him, but instead let him ensnare her in a risky gamble, for the promise of death was all too clearly stamped on her new enemy's face. She only had seconds to make a decision, and she was willing to bet that Traven having the sphere was likely little better than Mehrunes having it.

_"You want me?"_ she taunted the prince. _"Then come and get me, Cassius."_ She emphasized the name, and received a pulse of wicked determination from his end of the connection that momentarily blocked her awareness of Caranya. Then Portia was back in the courtyard, the menacing woman above her reciting strange words while holding an orb of light, and it sounded as though the altmer was talking to someone. Goblin's gall, but she couldn't be here when backup mages arrived. Arelius wouldn't even know what had happened to her, and this when he would be busy deciding how to handle his catch.

"I thought you had no magicka?"

Portia found the mage directly above her face, the woman leaning over her body with a sly, calculating edge to an already piercing gaze. One of Caranya's hands stretched out and touched Portia's cheek, sending a revolting sense of decay and death through her that made a slight smile form on the other's face.

"Necromancy is very potent," the mage whispered. "Perhaps Traven will let me have you once he has his artifact. I haven't had a healthy imperial for experiments in quite some time." Her hand emitted a dark burst of foul energy that washed Portia's body in a dull pain, the strangely numbing tendrils spreading from her toes to the tips of her ears. If she hadn't been paralyzed, she would have retched, and she felt bile rising in the back of her throat, the acidic taste making her inwardly curl in disgust.

"What is this powerful energy that surges inside of you?" the woman curiously asked. As a sharp jolt of pain made Portia's eyes water, the chaos spheres bite raced up Caranya's outstretched fingers, and made the woman rear back with a gasp. "Interesting. This must be what Traven is after." The altmer clutched her hand before shaking it, flexing the muscles as several words left her mouth, and Portia wanted to scream as torment engulfed her, eliciting another burst of chaos that made the candles flare brightly, and Caranya's eyes widen.

"Such power..." Portia knew that Mehrunes was drawing closer—had felt his pause as the pain hit her, and then his fervent searching. He was coming, and she wasn't sure if she should be relieved or horrified, but she tended toward the former as Caranya eyed her like some sort of specimen. "Where does that power come from?"

More pain washed over Portia, this time making her feel as if the skin was peeling off of her scalp, and in response, her body swelled with the counter-force of the sphere. It was almost too much to handle, and she was convinced that if the necromancer didn't kill her, the chaos would. Damn, but its power needed an outlet. It needed...

"Let's see..." but Caranya never got to finish her statement as Portia growled, eyes flashing orange as she surged to her feet with her hair whipping about her face. The energy burst from her, blasting off of stones, making them shudder, and slamming Caranya in the chest. The woman bit her lip to keep from yelling, and fell to her knees, but not before sending another spell at Portia, and the direct hit made Portia collapse, her lungs constricting in odd rhythms as she floundered for control. Even after she struck the ground, the spell persisted, and she continued to writhe, throat begging to scream.

_"Make it stop,"_ she mentally cried, causing a resounding growl to break the silence of her torment. She could have sworn that Mehrunes was right beside her, yet she could not sense him given the state of her body, and perhaps the sound was only within her mind. Fighting back tears, she pried her eyes open to find Caranya scowling down at her, the front of the woman's dress singed.

"Yes," the woman hissed. "I look forward to having an imperial again."

"Not this one." The biting voice filled the courtyard, surprising both woman as a large hand clamped over Caranya's shoulder and ripped her away from Portia. No longer able to turn her head, Portia could sense Mehrunes and his exploding rage but not see him. There was a sharp intake of breath, a strange, wet ripping sound, and then nothing—nothing but the distant chatter of voices, the smell of wax, and the stars glittering above. Mehrunes was still there, but what was he doing? Portia didn't like the idea of being at his mercy any better than that of Caranya.

"Sherkyn," his voice called. She felt herself being lifted into his arms, but she could barely keep her eyes open, her body so thoroughly fatigued. Head against his shoulder, she vaguely realized how incredibly vulnerable she was, but Mehrunes didn't seem to mean her any harm...at the moment. She told herself to fight unconsciousness and resist his hold, but she couldn't. She closed her eyes and drifted away as she was carried through the streets, no one looking at them twice as candles continued to flicker.

*******************

Her eyelids felt swollen and heavy, but the pain would not let her sleep, and so she groggily awoke to a soft pressure on her shoulder. It was actually a comforting sensation, and she soon discovered why as she saw a warm, wet cloth cleaning cracked skin on her right shoulder. Someone was cleaning the odd, magically inflicted wounds that she'd suffered, and damn but it did feel good. Of course...

Portia suddenly realized that she was propped up, half-laying on a soft couch, and that she was topless, her bare breasts open to the cool air of the room. Feeling exposed, she looked to her helper, eyes traveling over the tanned hands that cleaned her and up to the dark hair and watchful face of Cassius, who sat on a chair beside her. _Not Cassius_, she reminded herself, muscles tensing.

"Relax, my lady," he mockingly spoke. "I'm only tending your wounds." She remained frozen, unsure as to what she should do as the cloth brushed down her arm, soothing despite her circumstances. Where had he taken her? The room seemed familiar, and she quickly studied her surroundings to shockingly find that he'd brought her to her own room in Arelius's manor. By the Nine, if he'd harmed anyone...

"Lay still," he ordered, keeping his voice low. "We wouldn't want to disturb the rest of the house. I'm afraid that I'd have to kill anyone who interrupts us." So they were safe for now. Portia eased back onto the couch, noticing that the latch on her door was clearly locked, which gave her some sense of security as Mehrunes dipped his cloth back into a bowl of warm water. Part of her was horrified to know that this was the last place Arelius would look for Mehrunes, but it also meant that no one could be harmed for foolishly trying to detain him.

"What are you doing?" she asked, noting that the front of his tunic was open and revealed ample chest when he leaned forward to attend her. A prince was attending her; how strange. He'd tortured her once upon a time.

"Cleaning you," Mehrunes stated. "I am not overly skilled with restoration, as I'm sure you know." She didn't respond as one of his hands brushed hair away from her face, his fingertips almost feeling like a caress as they glanced over her skin. Goblin's gall, but she had kissed this man. "How long have you known who I am?" he asked, dark eyes glinting in the lantern light beside the couch.

"Days," she answered. "Although I suspected it for much longer."

"I was hoping to break the surprise myself," he purred, the sound seeming to vibrate from within both of them, and Portia's hand suddenly jerked, almost flying to her ear to see if the chaos sphere remained. If he took it, his power would be even greater than it already was. She couldn't risk that, but he didn't seem interested in searching her as he set the rag aside and moved to sit on the edge of the couch, one arm flung over the backrest, and the other playing with her hair as his body angled over hers.

"Where's the mage?" she asked.

"Which part of her?" Portia closed her eyes and let herself forget for a moment just who was touching her for the sake of sanity. She was oddly calm and assured in this current position, worried by what Mehrunes planned, but also knowing that he wouldn't let anyone else harm her. "No one touches what's mine," he told her. "But you're probably still denying that, aren't you, Sherkyn?" She said nothing as she breathed in his scent, both because it would mean nothing in her vulnerable pose, and because she was acutely aware of the scar on her hip as he gently pressed a hand against it. What could she say against his claim when she was topless and with his hand on her bare skin? Apparently he too knew the answer, for he chuckled at her silence.

"I am at your mercy, prince," Portia allowed. "But you're in a corner. Horace and your cover are gone. You can't stay here any longer." His smile dropped into a serious expression, his hand gripping the back of her neck and pulling her upward into a sitting position to rest against him. Her limbs were still weakened, and her face fell against the crook of his neck, his warm skin pressed to hers.

"It doesn't matter," he darkly spoke into her ear. "I have what I want and came for."

"You don't have the chaos sphere," Portia tried to deny, but he only smirked.

"Don't I?" Did he know? Was he bluffing? Portia couldn't decide as he angled her face up toward his, forcing her to stare into his endless eyes. "You've played the game well, Sherkyn, and I am a fortunate daedra to have you as part of my win."

"What will you do with me?" she breathed, well aware of the possessive grip that he was using and the spark of orange in his eyes. Gilthan's warning that he didn't want her dead repeated in her mind, as well as images of Mehrunes dancing with her, kissing her, taunting and stalking, dropping enigmatic comments about ownership and...her mind was a jumble as hot lips breathed against her neck, a firm hand sliding down her waist. She should call for help, warn the others—something, anything.

"You'll kill me," she stated.

"Don't fool yourself, mortal." Lips touched the skin directly beneath her jawline. "I'll do whatever I want with you, but not that." His lips had found hers, and after a long, slow kiss, he stood while holding her against him, forcing her to stand before lifting her, and carrying her to the bed. She could hardly believe that this was happening as she was dropped onto the mattress, her mind fixated on the prince as his heated gaze swept over her, his eyes carefully gauging her reaction as he tossed aside his tunic. There was no denying that he wanted her, and both knew it as Portia scooted back to sit against the headboard, stunned by the sheer intensity of Mehrunes' emotions as the sphere allowed her to share them.

"Don't bother running," Mehrunes warned, but it was a pointless warning. Portia's mouth ran dry as she again felt like the disadvantaged mortal running through his palace, but she was no longer that woman. She'd fought so hard to show him otherwise, and if she cowered now, if she subjected herself without a word, that would be reversed.

His belt hit the floor with a dull thud, and Portia felt heat rising in her body. Goblin's gall, but he had a splendid body, and she'd made that body bleed. If she could best him in combat, surely...

"Sherkyn," he breathed, joining her on the bed. "You belong more to my world than you could ever possibly know." His demanding and predatory mood pressed against her mind, overwhelming her as he pulled her down beneath him, and she was no longer surprised to find that the physical and mental closeness of their beings was familiar and natural. When her pants came off, she'd helped remove them, and when he kissed her, she kissed back, forcing him to contend with her as the lantern slowly extinguished and their bodies rolled in the darkness. She even allowed herself to run hands through his raven locks and down the curve of his spine, losing herself in and enjoying the power that infused their movements.

"Cassius," Portia breathed.

"No," Mehrunes hissed, grabbing her chin and holding her still as he drilled holes into her eyes.

"_You can't control me,"_ her mind sharply replied, legs locking around his torso as if to prove her point. "_Don't think that this is my surrender_."

"_I wouldn't want this if it was_," came the sarcastic reply, echoing through her head as his forehead came to rest against hers. "_Now say it_." Portia fought against him, but as his will battled hers, she could not deny that he was making her his with each kiss and touch. He'd wormed his way into her during this chase, and gods, but she couldn't resist arching her back into him.

"Mehrunes." The word escaped her, and he held her close, wickedly pleased. Beneath them, a small trickle of blood stained the sheet as a corner of Portia's hip scar opened, but she didn't notice the light sting, and right along with her blood mixed Mehrunes' sweat. In the darkness, they held one another, oblivious to the storm that swirled around and within them.


	43. Chapter 43: Welcome Back

Chapter 42: Welcome Back

He was as fast as she remembered, but Tamil judged her timing perfectly. Each blast of magic was dodged, the spells tearing apart the inside of Horace's house, and furniture offering convenient protection from physical attacks. She was biding her time in hopes that the wound to his stomach would drain and leave him open to assault, but as she parried one of his thrusts and smashed a vase onto her enemy's head, he barely seemed fazed.

_Crack_!

"Horace won't thank you for that," she commented, seeing the table that the cloaked man had pushed aside. How the hell could he still be moving so fast when he was losing blood?

"You're running out of places to run, elf," he stated, slow, measured steps prowling closer. His ease did not sit well with Tamil, and she both admired and hated his ability to change pace so quickly. One moment he was savagely assaulting her, and the next he melted into a thoughtful, sneaky stance, his figure almost disappearing at times in the dark rooms. Tamil thanked the gods that she had plenty of experience in fighting under such circumstances.

Red eyes shifted to the short sword in her hands—the only weapon that remained in her possession, for this inhuman opponent had already disarmed her once, and she'd thrown all her daggers. How long had they been fighting? She could feel the physical strain of their combat as she considered the nearby stairs, constantly moving as she reviewed her options.

This man was stronger than her, and just as fast, but he was also confident of his win. He would chase her wherever she went, and although she didn't consider retreating for even a moment, she knew that something had to be done, for the numerous small cuts that peppered her body were beginning to drain her. If only she could have him follow her somewhere more conducive, or somewhere that she could surprise him. If he was prone for just one second...

"Blood loss will eventually take its toll, necromancer," Tamil hissed. She charged, exchanging a few swings with him before pivoting and running for the kitchen. This was so simple that it might actually work.

*******************

"He can't be found anywhere, sir," the guard stated, standing at attention as Arelius looked out toward the rest of the city. Horace was securely locked away, but Cassius was still missing, his men having futilely searched the whole of Talos district to find the daedra.

"Look again," he ordered. "And be discreet." He didn't want to disturb the people who so solemnly went about the holiday, and the flames of their devotion reflected off of his polished breastplate as he stopped to consider the candles that lined the base of Talos' statue. For such a mesmerizing night, he could not find it in himself to think beyond finding Mehrunes. _And Portia_, he added. She hadn't shown at the prison, and now he had additional men searching for her.

"Sir, shall all of us search the district again?" a man asked.

"No," came the curt reply. "I want four of you to come with me." He highly doubted that Mehrunes was in Talos, especially since the man was known for shunning the advances of courtly women. If they were lucky, the daedra had already called it quits and left the city, but Portia's absence did not bode well for that idea. Both she and the prince were missing, and Tamil had warned him of the fixation that Cassius seemed to have with his Blade. No, he was intuitively sure that something had gone terribly wrong. He would go to Horace's home and see if there was any evidence of the two having been there, and beyond that, he could only pray that the gods and tenacity would lead him in the right direction.

******************

Tamil entered another room at breakneck speed, her pursuer's footsteps directly behind her, and grimly smiled as she prepared to put her plan into action. They were back in the living room, and she sprinted forward as if heading for the kitchen, but instead, she slammed to a jarring halt, body twisting to lift a small, side table as her momentum nearly carried her beyond it. She didn't even stop to gauge how close her enemy was, but simply lifted the table and swung it with a force and speed that would deny reaction time.

_Crack._

Wood connected with a forearm, the table shuddering as the cloaked man barely managed to blunt a strike that would have hit his skull. _Damn_, Tamil cursed, angry that her plan hadn't gone completely according to plan, but she still saw an opening. Ruined Cloak had only just caught the table when her free hand slashed downward with her sword, the blade slicing deep into the man's shoulder, and continuing down across his robes and chest. She could not be sure of the wound's depth, but no one could walk away from something like that. No one would survive unless receiving immediate medical attention, and she would deny this man such a nicety.

"How's that, you..." Tamil gasped, the table dropping from her grasp as she quickly stumbled backward, one hand clutching the knife that was buried in her chest, its blade resting directly beneath the sternum. Ruined Cloak made a sharp, dismayed sound as he too pulled away, steps no longer smooth, and hands now weaponless.

"You're done, elf," he stated, voice still a chilling monotone. "The poison will finish the job this time." Tamil was leaning against the wall, the dagger that had wounded her held loosely in one hand as she found breathing increasingly difficult. Had the slender blade gone the whole way through? She wasn't sure as she watched her failing opponent.

"So are you, necromancer," she painfully commented, satisfied that if she did not get help in time, neither would he.

"You are mistaken." Ruined Cloak turned, moving in the direction of the basement, and an image of blood and youth flashed through Tamil's mind.

_No_.

"Bastard," she yelled, running toward him, dagger raised. He fired a spell at her, and although she screamed, the pain didn't stop her attack. She slammed into the man, knocking him to the floor and landing on top of him as she hacked at his raised arms, seeing nothing but his blood as she ensured that he would not survive. She could already feel herself fading, but she would not suffer the humiliation of dying and losing. That could not happen to her.

Breathing heavily, she stopped fighting to stare down at Ruined Cloak's mutilated form, his arms lying uselessly on the floor, and his hood thrown back to clearly reveal his face to her for the first time. He looked so normal as his eyes shifted to stare at her, his mouth parting, and a tongue darting out to lick blood from his chin. Tamil only then realized that those crimson specks had fallen from her face where he'd scratched her, and she silently watched his tongue sweep over them.

"Just a taste," came his dying comment, and then he was gone, eyes fixed in a blank stare that still held its intensity as Tamil jerked off of him, blood running down her leg to mingle with his. Maybe she could still get help, but then again, maybe not. She'd always suspected that she'd die young, and really, it should have been years ago when Ralyn had cornered her in that inn. At least this fetcher was now dead. She'd done exactly what she'd told Arelius she would, and she was quite pleased with the painful end that Ruined Cloak had suffered.

Tamil wasn't sure how long it took, or when she stepped out onto the street, but suddenly she was slumping against the outside of Horace's house, her back sliding down the wall and leaving a bloody smear as her strength abandoned her. Candles flickered all around, and she heard someone approaching, her eyes still sharp as they darted toward the sound. Surely she would be noticed, and so help might be forthcoming, but she wasn't one to hold out for optimism.

"Ralyn?" she curiously questioned, sure that she'd caught a glimpse of the vampire as her vision swept across the street, but then there was nothing except the sound of metal boots running across stone, and she knew that it was Arelius as a man crouched beside her.

"Send for a healer!" he yelled. "And confiscate any potions from the neighbors!" Tamil rolled her eyes at his professional tone as he removed a glove and wiped blood from her face. "Tamil, can you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," she replied.

"We're getting help for you. Just hold on a little while longer."

"This is the most concerned that I've ever heard you speak to me," the elf replied with a slight smirk. "Not going soft are you?"

"Save your strength, Tamil." She nodded, but didn't listen as she surveyed the open and lit windows of each house. It was almost like staring into the night sky with its hundreds of stars.

"I killed him," she proudly stated. "His body is inside."

"Good work, Blade." Tamil sternly agreed, her eyes finding his.

"I never failed a mission, sir. Never."

"Never," he agreed. Tamil closed her eyes, exhausted, but still aware of Arelius's presence as the worldly noises around her began to fade. "Rest, Tamil. You've done more than your duty."

"I bet you tell that to all your Blades...make sure that you don't leave my daggers in there."

"Rest, Tamil. You've been one of the best that I've ever served with." She didn't respond as he stood and stared down at her body, which would have looked leisurely if not for the blood and gashes. Arelius had a distinct feeling that the dunmer wouldn't survive this one, and that she was in fact, already gone when her eyes closed, but he refused to pass that judgement as he walked a short ways to raise a hand and motion toward the healer that he saw running down the street. The woman's white robes billowed behind her in her haste to reach the injured.

"The cost of my duties," he lowly commented to himself. "No victory is without its cost."

"Where is she?" the healer asked.

"Here. Quickly," he stated, turning to point, but he froze as he eyes alighted to the place where Tamil had been sitting. The blood remained, but the body was gone without explanation. "Tamil?!" he called, but he knew that she could not have moved on her own. Who would have taken her, and with such stealth? Her body deserved a proper burial with all the trappings accorded to a Blade that died while performing her duty, and now she was gone, just like that. His sadness at seeing his friend and colleague pass into the next world was partially waylaid and denied by her disappearance, but his logic told him not to expect her survival—wherever she'd been taken.

"Shall we look for her, sir?" someone asked. _Yes_, Arelius thought and almost said, for his upbringing demanded that the burial and body be treated with respect, and whatever else Tamil had been in life, she deserved recognition for her service. Someone was obviously preventing that, but still...

"No," he gruffly ordered, feeling the weight of his work bearing down on him. "We must find Cassius and Portia. The dead can be attended to later." Even he did not like the pragmatism of his statement, and questions lingered heavily in his mind as he put on his glove. Maybe she was still clinging to life somewhere, but he knew that Tamil would be disgusted with him if he wasted valuable time searching for a dying body, even her own.

_The Nine guide your soul, Tamil. _

Whatever crimes and murders she had committed in life, he would never see her as anything less than one of his best and most trusted friends.

* * *

Portia's chest rose and fell, the blanket resting beneath her breasts as she dozed, and Mehrunes was partly surprised that she wasn't attempting to turn him over to her allies, but only partly. With a pensive expression, he sat in a chair beside the bed, bare feet propped on the edge of the mattress as he lounged in nothing but trousers. He was hardly tired, but even he'd been surprised by the energy that had exerted itself during his recent coupling, for the chaos spheres had crackled with power, draining the human woman and leaving her sated and sleepy. Now she broke in and out of sleep, sometimes turning to look at him with lidded eyes that made him want to crawl back in bed.

He privately smirked in the dark, feeling more than ever that she belonged solely to him, and having her sleep beneath his watch reminded him of the power that he held over her. Oh yes, he could break her now if he wished, having just used her to gratify himself, and she probably wouldn't even be surprised. She'd fight his hold on her neck, maybe even scratching at him, but never begging or asking for mercy because of what they'd done. Truly, Portia was a remarkable woman, and in her case, he supposed that he hadn't actually broken her with this. She would still refuse to bow to him, but this concession was something at least, and it stroked his ego to no end.

_"He doesn't want to kill me, but what will he do?"_

Mehrunes stood and moved over to the bed, dark hair falling about his shoulders as he sat on the edge and leaned over Portia. Some of her thoughts filtered into to his mind, and there was a definite shift in her aura as he ran a fingertip over her jugular—a shift that immediately recognized his presence and inadvertently entwined its energy with his own. It was an unexpected result of bedding her that their spirits overlapped so much, for he'd felt the change as he indulged in her, having been aware of it the moment that Portia had stopped resisting and could think only of him. It'd been like consuming her entire being, and that's when he'd seen the sphere.

Fingers gently lifted the orb that hung from Portia's ear, its insides swirling orange as he held but did not remove it from her. During their coupling, it had become visible, and he could tell by the line of her sight that she too had seen the one that he wore, one of her hands also reaching to touch his. It had been quite the revelation for both of them.

_"Oblivion?" Portia questioned, the room they'd been in suddenly gone. Instead, they were in his bed, lost in its sheets as the red sky outside rippled with lightning, and he felt her arms tighten around him. _

_ "Sherkyn," he breathed into her neck, face buried there as he moved, and she was oh so accommodating, shocked as she was. Was it real? He wasn't sure as he recognized his chambers, for the entire setting reeked of his magic, and even the sheets felt like folds of power, but not her. She was the only thing that contrasted with the space, but only because her own signature power was emanating from within her, and although it shared kinship with his, it wasn't exactly the same. He found that intoxicating as he breathed her in, wondering what it would be like to actually have her in his chambers. _

Even now, he was drawn to her, aware that he'd made a critical mistake in bedding her, but not feeling regretful since there was always a way to get what he wanted in the end. Still...He released the earring and pondered his situation. The power that permeated the air around Portia did not come solely from the sphere, as he'd first concluded when it became visible. That would have explained everything, and yet, the power came from inside of her also, and he could now pinpoint its source at her core, which had so infused itself with daedric energy that was rightfully his alone, that taking the sphere would make small difference in the end. Part of it had imbedded itself within her, which explained why channeling the sphere's power hadn't killed her. And now...

"Damn mortal," Mehrunes huffed. The sphere had resisted her at first, even hurting her, because he'd wanted it to do so. Then he'd started to want her in ways beyond being her executioner, and the sphere had responded in kind, drawing the two together, and slowly welcoming Portia into its hold. True, she could hardly make use of the power as she wished, but for a while, he had completely dropped his guard when inside of her, and the overlap had been startlingly potent, resulting in her fatigue, for the sphere had sent more of itself into her, just as he had. He wasn't even entirely sure what he'd done to her, but he could scarcely keep her aura away from his own, and when he'd attempted to remove the sphere, it had resisted him. Resisted _him_!

Oh, he could physically take it from her, but its power was bound to both of them, meaning that physical possession meant little. Perhaps resistance was a poor word to use, for with the overlap between hunter and prey, Oblivion might not entirely differentiate between their spirits. The thought annoyed him to no end, and yet, there might be a way to reclaim her small partaking of his world, even if it did cut her out of his consciousness or kill her. What he needed was to concentrate and rip the essence free from her by asserting his full mastery of Oblivion, which would likely solve his problem, so long as she willingly complied. If she resisted him, he wasn't entirely sure what would happen, but then again, how could a mortal bear the brunt of his will? He'd been tamer and less overtly aggressive when in disguise, but those days were gone.

"_Warm,_" Portia's mind whispered as he pressed his body against hers. He planted an image of Oblivion in her mind to see her reaction, and she cautiously approached it, seeing the throne room as Mehrunes imagined every detail. It had been too long since he'd roamed those hallways in his full glory, and Portia easily discerned his fondness. _"You're ready to go home,_" she commented.

"You make it sound sentimental when it's not, mortal," he warned, as if daring her to suggest something so utterly weak and human. "But I'm ready to be out of this body."

"And here I rather liked it," she spoke aloud, eyes opening. She was clearly confused by her fatigue, but he refused to explain it as he stood and dressed. The less that she knew about her situation, the better.

"What are you trying to hide?" she asked, one hand playing with the chaos sphere beneath her hair.

"Get dressed," Mehrunes ordered, tossing clothing at her.

"Who says that I'm going anywhere?" she demanded, also standing, and Mehrunes ogled her naked form with appreciation. Dremora skin was rough and thick, but hers was soft and belied her inner strength, which he found most fitting. "You're still in mortal form, and I've already defeated you once." Mehrunes bristled, turning on her with baleful eyes at the memory of his humiliation. Admiring her skill was one thing, but having it rubbed in his face...intolerable.

"I've had beings killed for lesser offenses than that, Sherkyn," he warned. "And I suppose that you'd like to be caught naked in bed with your enemy?" Portia immediately began dressing, and he wondered if she could sense his double motive. Uncertainty as to what came next rolled off of her in waves, and she had to know that he wasn't done with her since she still had the earring. If she knew that he was taking her out of the city, she'd no doubt fight him, and he couldn't have that now, when his game was exposed.

"How very convenient," he mused. "I planned on taking you with me anyway, but with no definite way to find Ruined Cloak or even know if he's alive, you're even more instrumental." He didn't allow her time to react, for he hit her head, knocking her unconscious as he slung her over one shoulder. Striding like a hunter returning home with his kill, he joined the darkness, moving with the utmost confidence, and before long he was outside of the glowing city.

***************

This definitely wasn't her bedroom, for Portia could feel damp grass brushing her cheeks, and birds were chirping in the trees above her. Damn her body for this inexplicable fatigue, and damn Mehrunes for always forcing her into these situations. With a groan, she sat up, surveying her surroundings with both interest and apprehension as she realized that she was on a hill overlooking the imperial city. The white tower shone in the morning light, and she wondered what Arelius and Tamil were doing—whether they were looking for her or not—for she had a feeling that she could not get out of this one on her own. She wasn't sure how fast Mehrunes could run, but he wouldn't restrain his powers out in the countryside, and running the entire way back to the city would be a challenge.

_What an idiotic thought_, she chided herself, tenderly feeling the bruise on the side of her head where she'd been hit. _I really am desperate if my only clear option is running like hell_. The warmth and pleasure that she'd felt in the arms of the daedra seemed distant as she contemplated her situation, not even bothering to turn around and look at Mehrunes, for she could sense him there, his eyes devouring her. He was probably waiting to pounce when she attempted to move, but she had no intentions of giving him that satisfaction.

"Regretting your foolishness?" he asked, breaking the silence when it was clear that she would not.

"If you're asking whether I regret sleeping with you or not, then no, I don't," she immediately answered. After weeks of circling each other, their joining had felt natural, as if doing so had affirmed the strange affinity that they'd come to share. Nor did his demanding nature in bed disturb her, for he was a daedra, and she well understood his drive to dominate and own her, which was the instinct that had driven them to a mattress to begin with. As far as her part, she could admit that she'd wanted to have physical influence over him, and to know that he had maddeningly wanted both her body and soul had been oddly alluring. In short, their encounter made sense to her, even if she couldn't articulate what had led to their union, or the fact that it could so boldly exist while they still struggled against one another.

"What are we doing out here?" she asked, feeling naked without a weapon.

"We haven't concluded our business yet," Mehrunes drawled, and she heard his footfalls drawing closer. He grabbed her by the back of the neck and lifted her into a standing position, making her glare in protest as she detached his hand from her person. He had no right to manhandle her!

"Our business?" Portia questioned. "You came for the sphere, but you haven't taken it from me even though it's right here. There's nothing that I can do to stop you from reclaiming it."

"Would you give it to me willingly?" he probed, human face serious as he regarded her.

"No," she quickly answered. "I know what you'll use it for, and I will never willingly be responsible for innocent deaths again. But how can I stop you, prince?" Her sword was strapped to his waist, and she didn't like seeing it there as something dangerous flashed through his eyes. He was thinking, and she knew it, yet she remained unsure of the frustration that boiled within him. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I'll be blunt, mortal," he replied, obviously unhappy with the situation. "The sphere cages the energy that I poured into my dimension so that it's easier for me to mold, but that energy can escape. Somehow, part of that power has leeched into you—choosing you as its host. The sphere is incomplete." Portia blanched even though she was not particularly surprised by this revelation.

"What are you saying?" she warily asked.

"I'm going to take back what you took." She stepped away from him, disliking the dark tone of his voice, as if something ominous approached. "Don't resist me, Portia. It might kill you." Then she felt it—a tugging deep inside of her that made her emotions and nerves stir uncomfortably—and she knew that he was inside of her, fishing around with unseen hands as he searched for what he'd lost. At first, there was no resistance, for she merely stood staring at the prince, who hadn't physically moved an inch toward her, and marveled at the strange sensation, but then the pain came.

Portia doubled over as something was torn, and the sphere began glowing, its hum sounding like an endless scream as she felt her insides twist in ways that shouldn't have been possible. It wasn't physical, she knew, but it felt physical, and she immediately resisted the pulling, hating the empty gap that seemed to suffuse her spirit as pieces of her were shredded. Was the sphere's influence what she was losing? She knew this empty feeling, and as Mehrunes pulled harder, she screamed and frantically grabbed at what he was attempting to take.

"Stop fighting me!" he roared, silencing the wildlife around them, but Portia couldn't stop. He was standing right in front of her, yet he seemed to become more distant with each passing second, and it unnerved her. Her spirit felt alone and cold, but the sphere infused her with heat as she fought, pleased that the energy clung to her.

_I'm going to pass out,_ she realized, angry with herself for the weakness, but the pain was becoming unbearable. _Mehrunes, stop! _Why couldn't she sense his response and aura? She gave a shrill scream, and her vision exploded in orange, someone's deep curses shattering the world as she withdrew into herself, cradling the familiar presence of the sphere as she began to calm down. The pain had stopped, and she felt secure again until Mehrunes lifted her chin to make her look at him.

"Damn you," he hissed, furious. "You've become too close to Oblivion—taken too much of my world into your body. Either you give it back, or I _will_ kill you." Portia blinked, forcing herself to stand and face him defiantly. Something was bothering her—a memory whose significance she only now placed.

"This your own fault," she tartly told him. "I felt what you did." His dark eyes shifted directly to hers, his face taut as she pressed forward. "You widened the connection, and...and sent more chaos into me. You wanted me to remain strong enough to hold my own against your force when I was laying beneath you, because _you_ didn't want me to merely cling to you. I could _hear_ your thoughts, Mehrunes, and I _felt_ what you wanted."

"Are you accusing me of doing this to myself?" he ground out, fury building and fists tightening.

"You like my tie to Oblivion," Portia asserted. He grabbed her forearm and forced her closer, eyes burning dangerously as he breathed on her face.

"I'm going to give you an option, so listen carefully, Sherkyn. If you willingly return what's rightfully mine, I will allow you to stay here, in your world, but if you refuse, you're coming with me as I'd planned. I might not be able to undo what's happened, and maybe I don't want to break your ties to Oblivion, but I will _not_ allow what is mine to be held by another. Do you understand?"

"You'd let me go?" Portia incredulously asked.

"For my power, yes," he reluctantly agreed. "But you'll never run far enough to be safe from me in the end, Sherkyn. You are mine as much as the sphere is." Having to compromise on this must have been killing him on the inside, and Portia wisely kept that thought to herself as he dangerously jostled her, as if he could force an answer from her.

"And if I don't cooperate?" she asked, earning herself a growl. "I don't know if I can let go of what's happened," she explained. "When you started ripping the sphere from me, I...I _had_ to fight. Do you understand? Something compelled me to cling to it." Mehrunes crowded her senses as he studied her open face, for she was telling the truth and willed him to see that. She truly did not know if her spirit would allow her to simply let go of the what it'd bonded with.

"Then you are coming with me," he growled, sounding neutral, although Portia could feel his inner conflict, which raged between pleased and bloodthirsty anger. "You will help me open a gate to Oblivion, and accompany me into the Deadlands, or I will go the nearest village and kill everyone—man, woman, and child." Portia's jaw clenched, and yet, she was leaning forward against him, drawn to his spirit and knowing that she wouldn't risk the ramifications of refusing him in this instant.

"I will help you," she finally breathed, unsure if her move was for the best or not. On the one hand, she was limiting his power by keeping the sphere, and on the other, she was helping him escape justice. _What kind of justice could a human court deliver on him?_ Yes, she supposed that this was her only and best option, and part of her felt Oblivion calling as both she and the prince began releasing the power trapped within the spheres.

There was a loud crack, and the sky flashed red, fire seemingly consuming the forest as Portia's eyes widened. Dark mountains rose in the distant, dry, craggy earth stretched beneath her feet, and heat seemed to rise from tiny cracks in the ground. _Black stone_, she noted, staring at the sleek sides of an obsidian wall that reflected a lava flow on its polished surface. Her stomach clenched, and she turned to find Mehrunes smiling, the prince's mood elusive and taunting as she glanced over to her shoulder and saw a green forest through a small tear in space. The opening was rapidly shutting, and she could only watch as the last view of her world was stolen from her.

"Welcome back, Lady Augustine," Mehrunes mockingly offered.


	44. Chapter 44: Within Oblivion

Chapter 43: Within Oblivion

"Your return has been expected, my lord," a dremora bowed while speaking daedric in his gravelly tenor. "The Valkynaz await your orders." The man straightened, and Portia studied his black and red armor as he in turn studied her, his red eyes glinting with curiosity as she remained at Mehrunes' side.

"Has any progress been made in my absence?" Mehrunes asked, his human form wavering. He grew taller, and two additional arms ripped free from his sides as his skin morphed into a fiery shade of red, lighter designs curling across it as if painted by an unseen brush. Portia could not stop staring at the familiar sight as the transformation ended, for the prince now looked nothing like Cassius, yet his voice remained the same, low timbre. She tried to refrain from gaping, but she knew that her face had betrayed her before she could look away. Still, Mehrunes didn't even spare her a glance as his servant explained the current situation.

"More Oblivion Gates have been opened, and the empire's forces are hard pressed to fight the number of daedra that have crossed over." Portia knew that she should not understand everything that was said given her recent introduction to daedric, but she was eavesdropping as easily as if the two daedra had been speaking common tongue. She wondered if that was another side effect of her connection with Mehrunes, but she wasn't about to ask him in front of this Valkynaz, so she instead cautiously scanned her surroundings.

_Am I really here?_

Her head tilted backward to look up at the chamber's high ceiling, the red-tinted windows at the top casting garish light off of the black walls with their angular patterns. She almost felt like an unseen observer as her eyes moved—an intruder forgotten by both Mehrunes and the dremora standing guard around the room's edges, and a spirit free to stick her nose where she wished. She had to remind herself that she was not safe this time around, for there would be no waking up in Arelius's manor, and she was hardly invisible. It was a wonder then that the fear she thought might affect her was distant, lurking on the edges of her consciousness as she heard whispers humming through the palace's foundations.

Curious, she listened closely to realize that what she recognized was not so much a sound as a vibration that seemed to run across her heartstrings, as if this place was alive and speaking to her. There were no words, but she was acutely aware of a heat flowing beneath her like one of the Deadland's lava flows, and as her glazed expression came to rest on Mehrunes', she saw that his chaos sphere pulsed orange in time with the rhythm of this world. It was a strangely compelling sensation, and her could feel it cradling her, borderline caressing her.

"And who is the mortal?"

Portia's attention snapped to the dremora, who spoke with obvious reserve, the creature refraining from expressing distaste over a mortal until gauging his master's intent. She imagined that learning to speak formally and only when bidden was a necessary skill in a society split into rigid ranks. What did these dremora truly think of her? She was curious, but her curiosity shattered when she recalled the numerous dead humans spitted and left as decorations along the walkway to the palace.

"This is Lady Portia Augustine," Mehrunes grinned, sharp incisors prominent as his lips parted. "Summon the Triunity, and have them sent to the throne room."

"As you wish, my lord." The dremora bowed and quickly departed as Mehrunes turned to Portia. His physical form was more intimidating than before, and that coupled with the dead bodies that she'd seen outside reminded her of how brutal this being and his minions could be. This was a dangerous world, and she only knew the barest details about surviving here, making her dependent on this man's mercy. She wasn't foolish enough to think otherwise—not after she'd signed herself away by agreeing to come here—and she dearly hoped that Mehrunes had spoken the truth when he claimed to respect her. It would likely make this experience much more tolerable, for she clearly remembered where she'd been put last time, when he'd thought nothing of her.

"Does this place bring back pleasant memories?" the prince mockingly asked. Portia met his challenging stare, making her realize that his eyes were the same impenetrable black whether he was in his rightful form or a more human one. When she looked into those bottomless wells of power, she could almost forget that the two of them weren't sitting inside of a theater, quietly conversing and baiting one another while sipping wine. It amazed her how little their personal dynamics had changed since his unveiling—a thought that hit her full force as sarcastic words bubbled to surface.

"Memories?" she asked. "I suppose. Shall I lead the way to the throne room, or would you like to?" He stepped closer, easily towering over her by a full foot now, and brought his face close to hers.

"Very clever," he lowly commented. "But I am master here, Sherkyn, and I advise you to remember that. I can always send you back to the dungeons, where you'll rot alone in the dark."

"Would you prefer my utter subservience?" she questioned. "Because you can't have it, even if I am your prisoner. I didn't give it to you before, and I certainly won't now that you don't truly want it." He suddenly seized her hair, painfully jerking her head backward to expose her throat as his hot breath rippled across her skin.

"_What I want_?" She gritted her teeth against the pain, feeling the eyes of the present dremora training on her as she refused to futilely struggle. "You'd best beware what I want," Mehrunes whispered. "If we were alone, you'd be attempting to hit me, but we're not alone anymore, Sherkyn. My servants are here, and you obviously don't want to be made a fool of in front of them. Neither. Do. I." He released her, and Portia sharply exhaled, her brain trying to rearrange the shift in their circumstances.

He was right, of course; she couldn't risk being made a fool of before the daedra, and especially dremora, for their world ran on respect and fear, and without it, she would be nothing but dirt in their eyes. _Or worse_, she realized, _I'll be considered easy prey to torment_. She would need to keep alert and stronger than ever to survive here for however long that was, for she was sure that the dremora wouldn't touch her so long as she was under Mehrunes' protection, but she was not entirely certain that he would declare her off-limits either. He was, after all, very much in favor of survival of the fittest, and he'd put her through tests before.

"I understand," she finally stated. "Shall we go...?" His eyes hardened, and the scar on her hip burned, as if a hot brand had been pressed against her skin. "My lord," she added, unable to deny his power over her as she stubbornly refused to express her physical discomfort.

"This way," the prince ordered, leading Portia through the palace's dimly lit corridors before arriving at two large, ornate doors that were covered in archaic lettering, armored warriors, and writhing bodies. Some of the figures were clearly screaming as their twisted bodies seemed to weave together, the warriors mercilessly cutting through them while golden script flowed among slashing blades and axes. Portia recognized some older variations of the daedric alphabet among the script, but she could not decipher them as guards opened the doors, and nor did she wish to dwell on the violent scene any longer.

"Home sweet home," Mehrunes grinned, striding into the newly revealed room. This area of the palace Portia clearly recognized as she stepped into the enormous chamber after him, her eyes drifting to the throne sitting at the room's far end. Mehrunes was already on his way there, his imposing form sweeping by the long rows of midnight black columns and towering windows that paved the way to his seat, flowing, red curtains stirring with the energy that surrounded him as he walked.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asked himself as he sat down, looking at home on the massive, black throne. Two of his arms rested on his lap while the other two laid across the throne's arms, and in nothing but a long, black loincloth, his muscled physique was on full display as he lounged. He leaned his head back, body relaxing as Portia stood before him, merely watching him live up to his title as prince. "You were nothing but a spirit," he mused aloud. "I had no idea that it was you for the longest time. You were bold to follow me."

"It was not entirely my choice," Portia confided, feeling swallowed by the massive size of the room. "I was drawn here by the sphere, just as I am now." Mehrunes studied her as she closed her eyes, Portia listening to the ever-present throb of energy that came from the sky, the walls, and especially Mehrunes himself. _Why does this world feel so alive?_

_"Because it is sustained by the power that I have tamed,"_ Mehrunes answered from within her mind, and Portia opened her eyes to find him seemingly lost in thought. _"The very stones that you stand on were forged by my hands, and now that same power is part of you."_

"It's warm," she said.

"The dremora feel it too, but to a much lesser extent. They are in tune with this plane, but not my creations. Most choose to stay here because of the void that they feel in other worlds, but their connection is nothing like what you're feeling." He must have sensed her unspoken question, for he titled his head and smirked. "Oh yes, Portia. I feel the mingling of myself, my world, and you. It flows in and out of your system so naturally that it doesn't even bother you anymore." Suddenly his smile dropped, and he snarled. "This is going to be very difficult to fix."

As if on cue, Portia became aware of three other beings, all dremora dressed in long, grey robes as they materialized from the shadows. Their dark, rough faces overlooked her to focus on Mehrunes, and as they formed a semi-circle around their master, and consequently Portia, they bowed low.

"You summoned us, our lord?" one with shockingly red hair asked.

"Yes," Mehrunes sternly answered, eyes wandering to Portia. "This woman has done something that I would have thought impossible, and I want it undone." _He wants it undone_, Portia privately mused, _yet he did nothing to stop it in the first place_. Their eyes locked, and she contemplated the extent of the truth behind his words, especially after he'd so adamantly laid claimed to both her body and spirit. His words and actions certainly contradicted themselves.

_"Tread carefully,"_ he whispered inside of her, and she quickly averted her attention to see that the three dremora were studying her.

"She feels...of this place," one commented.

"The sphere," another spoke. "How long has she worn it? And why is the mortal not dead?"

"Mortal?" the one with red hair snarled. "No mortal could withstand the sphere. She does not feel mortal." His eyes narrowed in consideration. "But the woman is of that world, is she not, my lord?" Mehrunes grunted in annoyed agreement and glared at nothing in particular.

"She is indeed," he slowly spoke. "I want your assistance in removing the sphere from her soul." Here the red-haired one actually paused, a peculiar look crossing his features before he schooled them back into a neutral expression. "You have something to say, Drengor?" Mehrunes' voice had dropped dangerously low, bordering on a growl as he awaited a response.

"It is only that your power is much greater than ours, my lord," the dremora carefully spoke while bowing. "I'm sure that you could kill the mortal and reclaim what is rightfully yours." Portia tensed, watching both the dremora and prince out of the corners of her eyes as Mehrunes drew an invisible circle on the arm of his throne.

"She is not to die...yet, and that is all you need know. You will aid me and breath a word of this to no one."

"Of course, my lord," the dremora again bowed. "The mortal is yours."

"My name is Portia Augustine," Portia interjected, forcing her bravery as her imagination caught a glimpse of the bloody fate that the dremora would likely have handed her. She had to remember that this was not her world, and from what she'd read, treatment here revolved around rank and power. For that, she could not solely rely on Mehrunes. She couldn't rely on his word to speak for her, and it was best to begin defending herself now. She had once told the prince that she would not cower, and even if she wanted to, doing so now would be detrimental. She could feel it in the questioning stares of the dremora and the warmth of Mehrunes' spirit washing over hers.

"She speaks daedric?" one of the dremora asked, startled.

"Yes," Portia scoffed, trying to mirror one of Mehrunes' disdainful glares as she forced her legs to remain steady. The prince could probably sense her discomfort and apprehension, but if he was the only one, she could live with that. "And you don't need to speak about me as if I'm not in the room." Mehrunes chuckled, cracking a few of his knuckles as he tilted his head toward the leading dremora, sending his servant a subtle smile that's message was beyond Portia.

"Let's begin," Mehrunes ordered. "My lady." Portia looked to him as he rose from his throne, the daedra taking a few steps so that they were no more than three feet apart. "Cooperate."

_Do you really wish me to?_

He never answered as the dremora began to chant, and the world quickly blurred into an indistinct collage of red, black, and bright light as her legs trembled. She didn't think that she could handle this a second time as Mehrunes began dissecting her spirit, laying bare her core where the orange energy thrived. It hurt, and if she'd thought that the world felt empty with its removal before, the sensation now made her want to rail and scream in protest.

_Just let it go_, she told herself. _Look at what it's done to you._

"Sherkyn," Mehrunes' voice growled. "Why cling to my world?" She fell into the abyss as he rushed to grab her, holding her back from the edge as his fingers closed around the sphere on her ear.

"Cold," she breathed, unsure if she spoke aloud or only within her mind. "Silent. It's cold and silent. Where are you going?" His fingers remained tightly around the sphere, and again, she was unsure what was physical and what was not. The room seemed to plunge into ice as a sharp tug ruptured her chest. "I should let go," she painfully hissed. "But I can't."

"If you keep fighting, you'll die, Sherkyn. That's no end for someone like you."

"I'm trying!" she impulsively shrieked, making Mehrunes' motions jerk to a stop as she wrapped her fingers around his. "But I can't just stop. I haven't been able to escape this place for so long. Gods help me, but I wanted to let go—I want to let go, but the scar...no matter where I went, I always ended up back here after you marked me. I don't understand what happened when I went home, but now you're ripping me apart. I don't even know what you're taking, but if I lose it..."

The words flowed without her consent or understanding as she began to struggle in earnest, but Mehrunes was vicious in denying her any escape. She thought that maybe she was bleeding as the chanting around her grew louder, and suddenly hands were holding her down against the stone floor, which swelled with heat against her back. The dremora? Were they holding her down? Portia couldn't force them away, so there was no hope of standing to flee, but there was somewhere else that she could go. It drifted beneath her, beckoning her as she stopped fighting Mehrunes and reached for the other force acting upon her. She almost felt like she could sink into the floor as it enveloped her...

"Portia, no!" his voice yelled in warning.

"A mortal will not survive this," another voice spoke.

"Sherkyn! Don't defy me! Release it!" He was furious, the palace shaking with his wrath, but Portia didn't care. His thunder was the last thing that she heard before silence swallowed the world. There was only warmth and the ebb and flow of the Deadlands as she contentedly surrendered to wherever she had landed herself.

**************

"My lord?" Mehrunes stood over Portia's body and watched the mortal sleep, her hands twitching as dark hair splayed across the floor around her like a dark halo. Of all the idiotic, rash decisions that this human had made... "My lord?"

"What?" he spat, still angry at the woman for having successfully denied his orders yet again.

"She lives." The dremora sounded amazed as he laid a hand upon the mortal's forehead. "But for how long, we cannot know. She has..."

"I know," Mehrunes impatiently dismissed. "I do not need a lecture on my own world, Valkynaz."

"But how can she go where the souls are?" another dremora questioned. "Only our dead brethren experience the unseen rivers of the Deadlands, my lord, and she is not one of us. Nor has she died." Mehrunes didn't have an answer that he was willing to share as he crouched and lifted Portia in two of his arms. She slumbered on, lost for the moment, although he could easily dip within her mind to prod her. He did so gently, and she stirred, mumbling his name as he frowned.

"You may leave," the prince stated. "Now." The dremora bowed and disappeared as he began walking toward his private chambers, Portia in hand. What his subordinates forgot was that he, as this world's smith, had layered the dimension, inserting the pathway for lost souls beneath the surface. Unlike other daedra, he did not slay and encage mortal or immortal souls for his service or amusement, but rather reserved the potential for prolonged existence for his own warriors. They would die, rejoin the river of lava and energy that was this world's heart beneath the craggy, black surface, and be born again at a later time. The Deadlands were literally alive with their spirits merging and reemerging from its fabric, but this world's heart only beat because of its ruler, and Portia had now tossed herself into that mix. She was intimately entwined with Oblivion, and as she swam beneath its waters, what had been a small fraction of chaos within her soul began to grow.

"You've permanently damned yourself," Mehrunes told her, moving toward his bed and dropping her onto it. She hit the black sheets and snuggled into them, Mehrunes struck by the peculiar scene of this mortal female soundly asleep on his bed of all places. He'd dreamed of having her here at his mercy, but now that she was, he merely stood and stared at her, feeling her spirit glide against his, and wondering what the hell he could do about this. He very much doubted that he could take what she'd stolen, but Portia was his, so had he truly lost anything? Perhaps he needed to approach this matter in a different light, for she was correct on at least one account: he'd fed his world into her, intentionally drawing her deeper into Oblivion's web for the sake of his bid to own her.

_And now she's mine. Forever. _

She would never be able to turn her back on him now—not after surrendering her whole self to this place, and hence, also to him. He might even be able to access his full power through her after overcoming her resistance, which would be easier now that her spirit was inseparable from his own. He would have to wait and see how she'd changed when she awoke. After all, no mortal had ever merged with chaos like this, so the effects on her were completely unknown, but he anticipated a favorable outcome. To feel her traveling in and out of his body and mind as she slept, her soul his to summon and mold as his world parted to allow her passage...

"Vingeral!" he called as he moved to his room's opened doorway. A dremora soon appeared, ready to do his bidding, and the prince turned to point at Portia's prone form. "Have the guest chambers prepared for her; clean her up, and move her there. I want to be informed as soon as she's awake."

"Right away, my lord." Mehrunes didn't wait to see the orders executed as he stormed back toward the throne room. He had a war in Tamriel to win, and he'd been absent from its progress long enough.

*************

Portia opened her eyes and almost forgot that she was in Oblivion, but she jerked upright as soon as she realized that the silky sheets beneath her were not her own. She was laying on a massive bed with red curtains draped elegantly around it, the sheer, scarlet material enclosing her and obscuring her view of the room beyond, but not entirely as she waited and watched for some sign of life. Convinced that she was alone, she leaned back into the pillows and pulled the silk sheets up around her body, her forehead scrunching as she realized that someone had changed her clothing.

Gone were Portia's trousers and tunic, and in their place a soft, purple robe that sharply contrasted with the red sheets. It was tied loosely about her waist, the low-cut front immodestly dipping into her cleavage and drooping to the side to reveal a golden necklace inlaid with rubies. Matching bracelets adorned her wrists, and as her feet shifted, she realized that there were also anklets. And Goblin's gall, but even her hair was swept back into a high, crisscrossing twist that left her wondering why Mehrunes had ordered her appearance to be fixed thus. She felt like a damned queen lounging about in priceless gems, and perhaps in a prince's bed. No, he wouldn't leave her unattended in a room where he kept priceless artifacts, so she must be somewhere else, regal as it appeared.

"Five days, Sherkyn."

Portia knew that Mehrunes was there the moment that he stepped into the room, and she could see his outline pacing along the length of the bed. Had she really been in that...that place for so long?

"What happened?" she asked, her voice sore from disuse.

"Suffice it to say that you could be here a very long time."

"My lord?" a knock and voice came from some unseen door. "Azura is here to see you."

"Tell my dear sibling to wait," Mehrunes stated. "We will speak later, Sherkyn." Then he was gone, and Portia was left sitting still for quite some time, uncertain as to what she'd done and why she intrinsically knew that two guards were being posted outside of her door.

* * *

Okay, people, here's the deal. The semester is almost over, so I have a lot of papers to write. Updating will suffer as a consequence; however, I appreciate your patience, and thanks for all the reviews. I openly admit to loving them.


	45. Chapter 45: More than a Captive

Chapter 44: More than a Captive

"What do you want, Azura?" Mehrunes bellowed, two arms folded across his chest as he strode into the throne room. "Have you come to admonish me for meddling in Tamriel? If you have, your trip is meaningless, and you may leave." He did not particularly want to deal with his elder sibling, who stood before his throne in all her beauty, as audacious as she was striking. She truly was the most beautiful of the daedra with her slender, curving body, and long, flowing hair the color of fresh night with its various shades of blue. The dunmer liked to depict her as one of their own, but while her elegant features were similar to an elf's, her light skin and piercing, purple eyes were nothing like a mortal's. Now she stood before him, clothed in a long, flowing white dress as she patiently regarded him. She always had to be so damned patient and reserved.

"You always assume the worst of your visitors, Mehrunes," she observed. "Will you not even offer your sister a place to sit?" He really would have preferred to make her stand while he sat on his throne, but they were equals in rank, and he knew that blatantly offending her could have serious consequences. He had not forgotten how successful she'd been in aiding Nerevar and the Nerevarine, and she could be meddlesome when she wished, although he doubted that she could put much of a kink in his plans at this point.

"This way," he told her, indicating a side room where they retired to the comfort of ornate chairs, the seats overlooking a vast expanse of the Deadlands.

"For a moment, I thought that you meant to make me stand, brother," Azura commented, sitting and providing a sharp contrast to the backdrop of mountains and lava.

"I cannot help but suspect your motives for coming here when you rarely visit," Mehrunes replied. "A drink?" The other daedra shook her head with a slight smile, her hands folded daintily in her lap, and blue tresses cascading over her delicate shoulders. "Suit yourself." Mehrunes raised an arm, and within seconds a servant appeared with an entire flask of wine. He uncorked the bottle and drank directly from it, completely unconcerned with the amused smile that his sister wore. "Why have you come?" he asked.

"Perhaps I miss speaking with you," she softly spoke, lilac eyes searching.

"Doubtful," Mehrunes snorted.

"Really, Mehrunes, we haven't spoken in years. Now you're plotting war, and the rest of us have noticed. Do you realize that a few of your dremora slew a cluster of Sanguine's worshippers at his shrine?"

"So they did ask you to come talk to me," Mehrunes snarled. True, Azura was the only other prince that he wouldn't merely dismiss and kick out of his realm, but if they thought that she garnered special counsel with him, they had another thing coming. The problem with his siblings was that some of them tended to meddle with one another as much as they did with mortals. They'd created their own realms specifically to avoid such problems, but some of the princes were still damn annoying.

"They did not send me here," Azura promised. "Although Sanguine drank himself into a stupor and cursed your followers for about an hour. Knowing him, he's already forgotten the incident and found more people to join his parties." Mehrunes detected the subtle disapproval in Azura's voice and grinned, downing the rest of his wine and setting the flask aside.

"See?" he pointed out. "No harm done."

"If they had been my followers, I would not be so forgiving," Azura warningly commented.

"I'll leave your precious mortals alone," Mehrunes dismissed. "But that's not all you came here to say."

"No," she admitted, purple eyes growing darker as she crossed her legs. "Be careful that you don't overstep your boundaries, brother. The rest of us will not tolerate you asserting power over a realm that we have interests in."

"You cannot treat me like another Jyggalag," Mehrunes growled, sitting forward in warning.

"We wouldn't dream of it," Azura defended herself. "We know that you don't intend to hold Tamriel, but you're stepping on toes, especially those of the Nine. Surely you realize that they will not sit by and do nothing, and they have power in their own right, brother—dangerous power and influence among the mortals. There are also those of us who do not wish to see you eclipse our presence in the land, so everyone is watching. We've always been jealous creatures." Mehrunes sat back with a dark expression, Azura neutral and gazing prettily out over his world while he digested her words. Neither her warnings nor concerns were anything new, and he wouldn't change his plans for another prince, but her honest regard for his safety was something that he appreciated, however grudgingly.

"You've said your peace, sister," he stated. "And it changes nothing."

"Will you not even offer me the chance to spend the evening?" Azura questioned with a subtle smile. He definitely didn't like that smile. It was the mysteriously amused smile that she wore when privy to inside information.

"I know that you prefer the rooms of your silver palace," he lazily told her. "I won't burden you with my darker decor."

"Then it has nothing to do with the mortal that you put in my guest room." He glared at his sister, daring her to speak further, but Azura merely stood and dismissed herself. "I am surprised, Mehru." He bristled at the old nickname and expressed his distaste by standing to lord his greater height over her, but Azura was unimpressed, and carelessly offered him a goodnatured smile. "I'll be going now," she assured him. "But perhaps you will stop mocking me for my old friend now."

"You are mistaken," he bluntly told her, recalling his endless jokes about her pining after Nerevar. Whether she'd truly loved the man or not, she had done her best to protect him, and it was rumored that she was responsible for the passing of his soul into another body. To become so attached to a mortal was laughable, and yet, he could not deny that he intended to keep Portia for as long as possible.

"Perhaps I am wrong, brother," Azura agreed. "But then again, I might also see what you've blinded yourself against. Farewell." Mehrunes grumbled his own goodbye and watched Azura vanish, the stunning daedra leaving behind a faint trail of sparkling dust, as if a star had shimmered across his realm. She would not spread gossip about his guest as some would, but her knowledge still agitated him, making him seek out Portia's spirit. The human female was startled by his sudden attention, but quickly calmed, and he could envision her sitting at the vanity in her room, succumbing to the energy pulsing between them. As she silently queried after his interest, he withdrew, struck by the realization that the signature of her soul hardy felt like that of a mortal's any longer.

***************

Portia knew that Mehrunes was restless since his thoughts filtered through her mind, the growl of his displeasure rumbling along her muscles. Standing in a darkened hallway, she listened to his heartbeat, the sound seemingly pulsing in time with the blood fountain before her, and she wondered what had happened to offset his mood. She ran a finger along the rim of the fountain, the strange, black stone beneath her hands oddly glassy and cool despite its fearsome design. She'd seen dremora drink from these displays, but instead of being repulsed, she'd stood at a distance and watched with mild interest as the guards exchanged words and sometimes quietly glanced at her. They weren't talkative creatures and were imposing by nature, but they never threatened her, only treating her with aloofness. She highly suspected that would not be the case if she weren't being housed in Mehrunes' private wing of the palace, which was apparently an honor reserved for visiting princes.

_Perhaps you could brood a little more quietly, Lord Dagon_, she sarcastically thought as clap of lightning ripped through the air outside.

_"Not now, mortal,_" came his swift response. Portia moved to a nearby window, her red dress grazing the polished floor as she stared out into the rippling red of Oblivion's sky, white zigzags of lightning now flashing around the palace. The storm charged the air with energy, and Portia had the urge to abandon herself to the wild, violent forces around her; to join the power of thunder and wind that called to her. There was something utterly captivating about the sudden storms in this realm, and she always found herself watching them, almost feeling where the lightning would strike before it even appeared. Under such circumstances, losing sight of the constant threat to her life and the victims that littered this land was possible, but was it truly safe to venture out in a storm like this?

"Even the weather follows your command," she softly spoke, finding a narrow door that opened onto a staircase that spiraled along the outside of a small tower. The steps were dangerously compact, but her footing was sure as she ascended, hair fluttering in the warm wind as she lifted her dress to move faster. For days, she had been trapped with nothing to do, but climbing this tower, she felt her blood pump as if she were about to enter a duel, the clashing of lightning reaching a crescendo as she began to pant from the strenuous climb. She knew that this was impulsive, but she didn't care as she reached a landing that branched unsupported across open air to another tower. Walking across such an open bridge was daunting, and she paused, but not out of fear, but the breathtaking panoramic view of mountains and glowing rivers that spread out before her. She refused to look down lest she lose her nerve, but cautiously walked onward to the center of the precarious bridge, eyes glowing orange and reflecting the lightning.

_This place is called the Deadlands_, she mused, _but everything here is so alive_.

_"Very true, Sherkyn."_

_No, not everything lives_, she quickly corrected herself, imagining the occasional bodies that she found strung up like trophies, burnt flesh hanging from mouths fixed in screams and grimaces. What had those people done to deserve such a fate? They'd likely only been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and remembering her own torture here, Portia was all too aware that this was not her world or even a pleasant world. But still...Portia lifted her chin into the thunderous wind and felt alive, the red silks of her outfit whipping about her, and her appreciation for this realm's intricate design apparent if not wholly approved by her own heart.

_What have I done to myself?_

She remembered falling into this world with more than just her body, and as if told by a whisper on the wind, she knew that Mehrunes had spoken the truth: she was far past the point of return, but she could still leave, right? If she found a way to return to Tamriel, this connection to Oblivion wouldn't stop her, would it? Even if Mehrunes followed her in spirit form, she did not think that she was doomed to remain suspended in this dark domain until death. Of course, Mehrunes was being very secretive about the entire matter, mostly choosing to ignore her.

Their daily lives rarely crossed, although Portia was almost continuously aware of Mehrunes Dagon as she found herself a comfortable prisoner. Perhaps he did not bother her because of his invasion of Tamriel and the hunt for the heir, but she also suspected that he did not quite know what to do with her. She didn't know what could be done about her situation either—not now that simply removing the earring wouldn't work. In part, she was pleased that she continued to frustrate the prince's plans, and if the mages found a way to separate her and Oblivion, she would then become expendable. Whatever Mehrunes' intentions, she had no desire to come completely under his mercy and power due to loss of the sphere.

_"Beautiful."_

Portia did not know where he was, but she felt Mehrunes' eyes on her, examining her defiant pose amidst the storm, which was rapidly calming. She heard a dremora call to her from the stairs, and she reluctantly followed him back into the gloomy hallways that awaited her. She had requested a dueling partner, and perhaps one had been found, even if she was wary of engaging a dremora. Then again, what did she have to fear after fighting Mehrunes? She descended the stairs and knew that whatever happened, she had to maintain a firm footing against her captors, showing them that she was not a helpless prisoner. If inflicting a few wounds would make the dremora view her as more than a pathetic, human guest, then she had nothing against a little bloodshed.

******************

"This is ridiculous," Portia seethed beneath her breath, storming toward the throne room. She'd been here for almost two weeks, and she hadn't seen Mehrunes for seven straight days, despite the fact that she'd been looking for him. Apparently, as a dremora had informed her several days previously, the prince was not some commoner to be interrupted at will, and someone of a lower station had to request an audience. Controlling her annoyance at being considered Mehrunes' subject, she'd done just that, registering her request with a Valkynaz who she knew to wait on the prince, and her response: nothing.

_This is dangerous, Portia_, her conscious warned, but she brushed it aside. She'd been playing on the safe side since her life depended on circumstances beyond her control, but as she'd fought in the training room today, she'd realized that playing it safe had never gotten her anything from Mehrunes. She'd always been forced to confront him or engage his aggressiveness head on, and she could remember his energy flaring no brighter or more alluringly than when they sparred with one another. Well, to the deepest depths of Oblivion with minding her step then, because she was sick of waiting.

"Portia," the dremora walking behind her blurted. "This hall leads to the throne room."

"I know," she said, stopping to look back at the dremora, who was small for his race, but his ferociousness in combat more than made up for his short stature. "Mehrunes and I are going to talk." She shifted her weight, wondering why this dremora had run to catch up with her, for she'd left him in the training room, where she'd assumed he would stay. Compared to the others she'd dueled, he was more talkative, but still very curt with her, clinging to the reserve that all his brethren showed in admitting her into their circle. She could still remember the first day of walking into the training hall with her ill-fitted daedric armor, for the dremora had snorted or guffawed in disdainful amusement, but she was earning her place, and she knew it by the way that they now nodded in acknowledgment when she entered the room.

"I figured as much," the dremora continued in his guttural tongue, and Portia could not remember his name for the life of her. "When you abruptly left while muttering about a bastard, we considered it."

"If you're here to dissuade me, you're wasting your time," Portia dismissed. Her mood was not improved by the weight of her armor, which although smaller than her first suit, was still heavy for her feminine frame. There was a spray of red across her breastplate, where she'd injured a slower opponent today, and a few dents in her armor where she'd learned a lesson or two as well.

"It's your funeral, human," the dremora grunted. "I came to return this." He held out a dagger, and Portia looked to her waist to see that hers was missing. "A warrior does not leave behind her weapons." With a reluctant hand, Portia reached out and accepting the gesture, surprised to be on the receiving end of the consideration. Although they avoided talking to her, perhaps she was making more headway with her sparring partners than she'd previously thought. She had bested a few of them.

"Thank you." The dremora stiffly nodded and left, Portia watching him retreat for a few seconds as she fingered the dagger. Everyday she walked into the training room, she wondered if today would be the day that she was killed and laughed at as the stupid mortal who challenged dremora, but for all that, she'd gone religiously every other day, especially if she'd been bruised in the previous round. This gesture...Portia smiled as she continued toward the throne room, standing taller and bolder as she pushed onward. Let anyone sense the worry that she felt when an opponent knocked her down or the fear of being trapped here forever at the prince's whims, and she was done. She had a very strong inkling that Oblivion did not give second chances very often.

"Human, what do you think you're doing?!" a guard outside the throne room demanded.

"Out of the way," Portia ordered with more bravado than she felt, pushing through the doors and into the throne room as if she owned this place. Complete audacity or some reserve? She questioned how she should behave in order to get her point across without risking her life, but then again, maybe there was no way around tempting fate. Mehrunes might want her alive, but he had his tolerance limits, as she well knew.

"My lord, I advise..." The Valkynaz who'd been talking to Mehrunes turned, face frozen in surprise as Portia made no effort to keep her armor from announcing her approach down the central path to the throne. The flames of the braziers lining her forward march seemed to jump and crackle brightly with each step that she took, and the the light sharpened the angles of her armor, making her look like war itself as she moved.

_"What have we here?"_ Mehrunes mentally asked from where he sat on his throne, reclining with two hands steeped over his lap. Several dremora stood before him, their conversation trailing off as they too studied the new arrival, some scoffing as Portia removed her helmet and let her brown hair tumble over her shoulders. Mehrunes' face remained passive, although Portia could feel the interest pulsing through his body, his attention fixed solely on her as her green eyes attempted to pin him against the throne.

"You require something, Lady Augustine?" he asked, voice deep and mellow, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

"How nice of you to ask since you've been ignoring me for days on end," Portia replied, equally calm. "How long do you plan to keep me here?" The dremora exchanged glances, subtly distancing themselves from the two, who could have cared less given their intense focus on one another. Several dremora frowned in disapproval, but others smirked, no doubt thinking that Mehrunes would put Portia in her place, but she stood her ground, and Mehrunes merely tapped several fingers against the arms of his throne, face sternly studying his opponent.

"I'll keep you as long as I like," the prince stated. "And it's your own fault that you're here. I might grant you release if you return what's mine, but that's not a promise."

"You're not doing much to motivate me into being helpful then," Portia bluntly stated, aware that the prince's mood was stirring and taking on more dangerous overtones, but there was something else in his eyes that undercut her fear, for their dark depths swelled with an intensity that he seemed to reserve solely for her. She could almost feel his mind tossing her armor aside, his hands on her scars, and his mouth on her throat. With a shudder, she realized that she was seeing the fantasies rushing through his mind as he stood and approached her.

"You dare speak to me as if you're my equal?" he growled.

"I seem to remember beating you, _my lord_," Portia snapped, feeding off of his violent emotions. "It was I who had to fetch _you_ a healing potion."

"LEAVE!" Mehrunes bellowed, sending the dremora from the room as Portia thanked the gods that her armor provided stiff support for her legs. When a daedric prince yelled, the sound truly reverberated around the room with an awesome power that left her feeling insignificant, but she could do this. All she had to remember was that she'd once pushed this being before her into a puddle. "You've grown used to being here, I see," came his smoldering comment. "You're no longer just a fish out of water, as you mortals say, but to dare come to my throne room and speak to me like..."

"An equal?" Portia finished. "You were just as arrogant and demanding before, Cassius, and not once did I cower before you. Maybe I'm at your mercy, but I'd rather die standing than be a prisoner for life. You won't ignore me." One moment Mehrunes looked like he might hit her, but the next he was smirking, standing so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face.

"Ignore you?" he hissed. "You're a stunning creature in that armor, Sherkyn, and I'm sure that you've been giving my servants a challenge. I wonder if they find you as much of a conundrum as I do..." Portia opened her mouth to speak, but she quickly shut it as Mehrunes invaded her mind, although it was hardly an outright invasion since she didn't attempt to stop him. _"I've been doing myself a disservice by ignoring you, Sherkyn. I've been very busy these last few days. The heir will soon be within my power. Then your world will bow to me. How does that make you feel?"_

"They won't stop fighting, Mehrunes," Portia stated. "Your kind have never successfully taken over our plane before."

"We'll see," Mehrunes darkly mused, stepping back, although his arousal was quite evident to Portia, who might as well have been naked. "Did you notice anything strange two days ago?" he asked her, face blank.

"Two days ago..." Portia tried to remember, but nothing stood out. "Nothing happened. It just rained." Mehrunes nodded, carefully gauging her reaction as the memory of his words from weeks ago was forcefully brought to the fore of her mind. Then she recalled it: how the dremora had stood at the windows, watching the rain and almost reluctant to venture out in it, which she had found odd, but then again...

"It doesn't rain in Oblivion," Portia realized. "You told me that, but then what happened?"

"You should be the one telling me," Mehrunes grumbled, clearly troubled, but Portia could not comprehend his meaning as he began walking toward a small doorway. "This way, Sherkyn," he ordered. "I'd forgotten how refreshing you are."

_Not true_, Portia thought, recalling the many times that Mehrunes had mentally contacted her, baiting her or sending out a strange draw that beckoned her, as if he desired her presence.

"Will you ever willingly let me go?" Portia again asked. "If I can bring myself to allow the sphere to be ripped from me, will you let me go?" He did not answer her as they entered a room with a large central table, the surface littered with maps and scrolls.

"This is the palace," Mehrunes explained, pointing to a dot on one map.

"My god, your realm is huge," Portia blurted, staring at the map with interest, her eyes moving with Mehrunes' finger. He pointed out large seas of lava, and hunting grounds, other towns and fortresses, Oblivion gates and watchtowers. Portia listened to it all with curiosity, almost forgetting that the man beside her was far more than the Imperial that had once taken her to dinner. The voice was the same, as was the attitude and personality, and focused on the maps as she was, his physical form was lost on her.

_Why is he doing this?_

"I can't plan war all the time," came the mocking reply. "And you complained that I've been ignoring you." Portia smiled at his sarcastic manner, quickly being reminded of the reasons that she'd found Cassius engaging to begin with, and he was speaking of his world with the pride that a father might take in describing his son. He almost seemed eager to show off his world and its order, and always, in the back of his mind, lurked the thought of removing her clothing. As those thoughts pushed to the foreground, Portia wondered if she would even attempt to refuse him—as if it would do any good—but she was spared the decision when a dremora interrupted them to tell Mehrunes that his presence was needed in settling a dispute.

Portia was dismissed, and she wandered back to her room, trading her armor for a gown as she flopped onto the massive bed that dominated the room. No matter how worn out she was after training, she could and would slip into the fabric of Oblivion and feel renewed, as if the chaos infusing her soothed the bruises. Maybe it was all in her mind, but she didn't care at the moment as she rolled onto her back to stare at the bed's canopy. Damn, but these sheets were soft, gliding beautifully across her skin, and making her wonder why Mehrunes' palace had such obviously luxurious and even feminine quarters. He'd given her the room of a queen, but she was hardly a queen, and now that she thought about it, the bastard had nullified the purpose of her confrontation with him.

He had evaded giving her an answer about her freedom and position, and for a moment, she allowed herself to crumble, picturing blue skies and the imperial city, hearing Arelius's insistent comments and the hawking of the market district. Perhaps the energy that she was losing herself in could offer some relief, but could she trade her world for such a sensation? With a sudden urge to feel grass beneath her feet, Portia closed her eyes and let a few tears slide down the side of her face. She'd never even lit candles at Gilthan's grave, and now hundreds more might be suffering as Gates of Oblivion opened. How much blood stained the grass that she longed to touch?

The flow of energy that infused the Deadlands called to her, begging her to let it take away her troubles, but she was already silently crying as she surrendered, and outside, the red heaven's released a light drizzle of pure water, silver streams running off of the black towers and turning to steam as they touched lava. Dremora watched uneasily, and all of Oblivion seemed to pause at the strange sight. Elsewhere, Mehrunes stood by a window and witnessed the strange phenomenon, concerned with the amount of power that had been transferred to his Sherkyn.

* * *

I'm back!! All of my schoolwork has been turned in for the semester, and it's time to finish this story. I hope that everyone is still waiting around to read the updates, and to answer some queries, I am being very careful and mindful of how I handle the ending, because I know that an ending can make or break a story. That said, there are only two chapters left, and they'll be coming very soon. Enjoy!


	46. Chapter 46: Fond Enemies

Chapter 45: Fond Enemies

Portia awoke with a start, heart pounding and body bathed in sweat, and rubbed the remaining sleep from her eyes. Something was wrong, very wrong, but what? She'd been having difficulty sleeping all night, either waking up at odd intervals with a headache or dreaming of being overwhelmed by frustration, but this, this was reaching her limit. Even when her scar had bled and she'd been chased from her dreams by Mehrunes himself, she'd never found resting this difficult. Every calming thought that she tried to focus on was corrupted and tossed to the wind, and right when the headache would abate, it'd come back in full force. She was certain that the prince was the source of her difficulties this night, but what could have him in such a foul, uncontrollable mood?

_Mehrunes_, she called, seeking his spirit, but she couldn't reach him. He was oblivious in his current state, and that meant no rest for her. So, with a sigh, she tossed the sheets away from her body and pushed aside the thin curtains encasing her bed. The bedroom was dark and warm, but not uncomfortably so, and she knew her way around well enough, her bare feet padding expertly across black stone toward the door. She was dressed only in a thin black tunic that fell to her knees, the material slinking over her curves and shimmering as if metallic threads were interwoven with the black. Smooth as silk and soft as velvet, she had asked where it'd come from only to be told that there were wardrobes befitting royalty should other princes visit.

_You need to calm down_, she attempted to tell the prince as she stepped into an empty hallway. Excluding the few braziers that still blazed, Mehrunes' personal wing of the palace was dark and completely bereft of activity so late in the night, for he did not keep guards stationed during such hours. And so, it was in utter silence that Portia moved down the now familiar corridors, the angular stonework of the palace looming over her like nightmares come to life, and her skin seemingly as red as Mehrunes' as she passed by windows like molten lava. She knew exactly where he was, and he likely didn't even notice her approach with the amount of mental and emotional activity surrounding him. Gods knew that she could barely think with him in such a state, damn daedra.

"Goblin's gall, Mehrunes," she hissed, holding a hand to her pounding head as she neared his chambers. Not bothering to knock, she entered his bedroom, sealing the way behind her and turning to regard him with an annoyed expression. He was pacing with a dagger twirling madly between his fingers, his jaw set firmly and two of his hands clenching and unclenching. She felt every ounce of the frustration that plagued him, and while part of her empathized given the intimate connection between their emotions, she was also tired and worn out from sharing his problems.

"Mehrunes," she interrupted him, watching his pacing grind to an abrupt halt as his head swung toward her, black eyes impenetrable as they met hers.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, neither angry nor friendly as the dagger continued to spin. The black sheets of his bed were perfectly made, and a platter of half-eaten food sat on the table amidst his artifacts, making Portia wonder when he had last slept—certainly not tonight. "It's late, Sherkyn, and you're wandering about my palace without a weapon."

"As if anyone would hurt me," Portia stated. "A churl ran into me the other day, and he actually bowed and asked me to pardon his clumsiness. Some of your subjects think that I hold some favor or position here, and some of them even call me Sherkyn. That last bit would be your fault for addressing me as such amidst your Valkynaz." Mehrunes grunted and continued to pace, making the throbbing in Portia's head intensify. "Mehrunes," she sighed, "Neither of us will ever sleep if you keep this up."

"Ask if I care," he taunted her.

"I know that _you_ don't care," Portia asserted, "But _I_ do, and a little calm wouldn't do you any harm either. Whatever the problem is, I'm sure that you'll deal with it much better if you don't pace all night." He ignored her, and Portia's own anger began to mount, mixing with his until her hands were also clenched. He was still pacing, and if he didn't stop... "Damn it, Mehrunes!" Portia wanted to hit something as his thoughts crowded her mind, or maybe he wanted to hit something. Hell, they could hit each other for all she cared at the moment. "If you can't sleep, get out of my head so that I can!"

_Bang_.

Portia blinked, surprised to see that Mehrunes had rammed his dagger into the nearby tabletop, burying the blade to the hilt and making the table shake violently.

"He got away," Mehrunes hissed, releasing the dagger and using two arms to lean against the table, his back to her. "The heir was within my grasp, and he got away. Now he's on his way to the Imperial City to relight the dragonfires." His pride would not let him say more, but Portia heard the thoughts anyway since his mind was particularly unguarded in his current state. She heard him confess to the ineptitude of his mortal servants, the loyalty and skill of the Blades, and his own doubts concerning his victory. She saw Gates of Oblivion being shutdown, mortal armies killing his troops, and then herself, as he saw her, standing on a bridge in the middle of a storm that seemed not to touch her. She reminded him of something...something troubling.

_"If chaos was solely mine to command...No, I am as strong as ever, but she controls that small fraction. Does that have an effect? How can I kill that heir...if she stays, will she grow stronger...where..."_ Portia tried to shut her mind, overwhelmed by his powerful and unclear reflections, but she might as well have told the night to become day. So she stood and stared at the taut muscles of his tense back, marveling that such a being could sound and look so thwarted and doubtful, for such words seemed ill-suited to the prince that she knew. His drive to win was all too apparent to her, but so too was his currently torn mind, as if he were trying to tackle and solve several problems at once, and compared to that, being annoyed at a lack of sleep seemed fairly trivial.

_Perhaps I should just leave him be. _

"You must be happy," his steady voice halted her. "Your fetching world might again escape calamity." Bitterness? Portia had never heard bitterness in Mehrunes' voice before, but she heard it now, and suddenly his intentions were laid before her. Victory did not mean conquering Tamriel, but upsetting the tranquility that the Septims had brought in recent years, reminding mortals that they were not as high as they thought, but allowed to live in peace by greater forces. He was sick of mortals mocking the daedric princes and ignoring them, and it angered him that he'd been sealed away where his ever-present ambitions stewed without release. She saw blood run from ramparts, and he scorned the Nine for replacing what had once been largely daedric worship in Tamriel. Then she had stolen his sphere, and with startling clarity, one thought broke through the rest:

_"The hunt for you was the best that I've ever tasted." _

"Mortals don't ignore the princes," Portia stated, walking closer to Mehrunes' back. "Your names are often whispered with fear and uncertainty, and after this, I very much doubt that the empire will ever underestimate you." She laid a hand on his back, unsure of why she suddenly felt drawn to him again, but acknowledging that every calming breath and touch that she made eased his temper and bleakness, which in turn lessened the tension on her. "Neither of us is getting any sleep, I think," she commented, sounding weary and distant.

_You used to be playful and baiting—a real bastard—but still playful; taunting me as if cornering me was all a game. I thought that Tamriel was partly a game too. Don't daedra love to use and play with mortals? _

"We use mortals, yes," Mehrunes stated, back loosening as Portia ran a hand over his shoulder blades, "But we also have our own goals...Sherkyn, what are you doing in my chambers?"

"I told you. I couldn't sleep, and I came to tell you to shut up."

"Barging into a prince's room without permission is grounds for execution, but you've also just mouthed off to royalty on top of that, mortal. I dare say that you need to learn a lesson." However, the prince made no move to accost her, and she did not remove her hand from his back. His skin was so damn warm, and for a moment, she remembered what it had been like for that skin to brush against hers. What had ever possessed her to engage him like that? It had felt inevitable and right at the time, but he was a daedra and she a mortal, both vying to win this unspoken contest between them, and both stubborn by nature. Now she was here, and slipping in and out of Mehrunes' mind and presence was as simple as breathing, the feel of his skin beneath hers more than physical as the mood suffusing them mellowed.

"You are mine," Mehrunes stated with a slight purr, turning to ensnare her hips with two of his hands. The third hand remained at his side, and the other stroked her hair, his grip firm enough to warn against running, but gentle enough not to hurt her already tired body. Portia stared at his perfectly chiseled chest and the red designs swirling across it, one of her pointer fingers subconsciously tracing the circular patterns, and her eyes slowing moving up his neck and to the chaos sphere dangling from his ear. Feeling the power within, she physically reached for it while she mentally recoiled, but her hand never reached its target, for Mehrunes suddenly had her on the bed, his body dominating hers as he knelt over her.

"You belong here," the daedric prince muttered as he began kissing her neck, his hands making short work of tearing the tunic that she wore. Portia muttered something incoherent in reply, making Mehrunes chuckle as he extinguished the room's lighting with a single word. Rather than fight, Portia submitted, intrigued by the feeling of four hands handling her body at once, two beneath her and supporting her by lifting her body near the small of her back, one fondling her chest, and another in her hair. Mehrunes smelled of spice, and despite being larger than his human form, there was little difference between this body and Cassius in manner or feel. His body was still muscled but sleek, his skin red but smooth, and his teeth sharper, but the lips covering them exactly as she remembered.

"One day, you'll call me lord without sarcasm," he told her, taking his time in enjoying her body. Portia denied his claim, but he only laughed at her, congratulating her on bettering his mood as no one else could. She wondered how many females he'd used for pleasure before her, but he told her to be quiet, hushing her thoughts with well-planted touches, and Portia lost track of time as she wrapped arms around him. She felt like she was falling into the darkness of this world again, but she didn't mind as much as the first time, and when Mehrunes' had spent his body, he did not kick her out. No, he secured her at his side with one arm, and she was too tired to care that she was sleeping in his embrace once again.

"We're still enemies," she mumbled, pulling the sheets up over herself.

"But what fond enemies we are," Mehrunes responded, smiling into her hair. The bastard _would_ take pleasure in such a twisted situation, and that was Portia's last coherent thought for the night.

*******************

Mehrunes departed early the next morning, having left in a last attempt to prevent Martin from relighting the dragonfires, and leaving Portia sitting in his bed, swathed in sheets and pondering the fate of her realm. Arelius would be there, fighting dremora and attempting to aid the heir, and Tamil would likely be at his side, or maybe she'd be sniping daedra from a distance.

_If they're all still alive,_ she reminded herself, having been brought to Oblivion before knowing the fate of her companions. What had become of Horace, Lucretia, or the cloaked figure that stalked Tamil? Nothing was certain, and much might have changed since she'd been brought to the palace, especially considering that several weeks had passed. Now she was sitting in this bed, praying that Tamriel remained intact and that her friends survived while she awaited news. How odd, to be lounging in Mehrunes' bed while she hoped that he lost. She wasn't even entirely sure what to classify herself as, for did she count as a lover, a prisoner, a turncoat? She quickly dismissed the last one since her allegiance was still with the empire and mortals, and she didn't think that what was happening could be described or reduced to a concept as simple as prisoner.

She finally stood and dressed, using one of Mehrunes' rarely used tunics to fasten herself a makeshift dress tied about the middle with a belt. The outfit almost fell to her bare knees, and pulling her hair back into a loose braid, she braced herself to accept whatever outcome might greet her once she left this room. Of course, once Tamriel's fate had been determined, she could more seriously consider another attempt at releasing the sphere. Doing so might feel like dying, but staying here didn't seem like an option, and she could sense Mehrunes' discontent over the power in her system. She didn't understand it herself, but she had gleaned enough from his mind to know that he coveted controlling every ounce of chaos in this land, and over time, would that desire make him attempt something drastic?

_You've damaged yourself enough as it is, Portia_. She knew that her consciousness spoke the truth as she considered her fate, but she'd already failed to surrender the sphere twice. She'd originally kept the sphere from Mehrunes in order to thwart his plans, hoping that its absence would hinder his abilities, and maybe it did, for he seemed to think so, but if the dragonfires were relit, there would no longer be a point in retaining the sphere. The prince would again be sealed away, and that meant that she needed to face the full implications of letting go, of admitting that chaos had become a part of her that would only overtake her if she didn't forcefully divorce herself from it.

"He's back," she suddenly stated, head whipping toward the bedroom doors. He was marching into the throne room, where she also began to head, and judging by his stark demeanor, he was hardly victorious. Still, he was not frustrated and enraged like he'd been last night, but perhaps that was because he had somewhat succeeded in his plans, for Portia was sure that the damage he'd dealt was extensive. There was something about his demeanor that was deeply satisfied, and as an image of his larger-than-life form kicking and smashing imperial houses entered her mind, she could imagine why.

"Have all of the gates closed?"

Portia's step hitched as she entered the throne room, and she lingered in the shadows behind a pillar while Mehrunes spoke with several Valkynaz.

"Yes, my lord. They closed with many of our men still in Tamriel, but the kyn will continue to kill and take as many of the enemy with them as possible."

"I would expect nothing less," Mehrunes stated. "Damage?"

"The capitol is in shambles," another dremora said with a slight laugh. "Did you see the humans run in terror? We took many of their best fighters. The kyn will be recounting their tales of bloodshed tonight."

"We must thank you, master Dagon," another said, bowing his head. "Oblivion was growing restless with peace, and those reborn since the last great battles were hankering for a chance to avenge themselves. I've found cause to promote quite a few kyn thanks to these testing grounds." Mehrunes sat on his throne as the dremora continued discussing certain kyn who'd performed well, or the respect that the Hero of Kvatch had gained, for the hero had many dremora convinced that great challenges were to be had in fighting mortals. Mehrunes listened to it all, responding in kind and giving orders, but Portia felt his attention on her as she crept closer, her body remaining inconspicuously on the peripheral.

"You performed well," Mehrunes finally stated. "And your subordinates will be waiting for you below. Go to them, and see that the proper respect and rituals are shown for the fallen."

"And the trophies that we took...?" one dremora asked with a wickedly pleased expression.

"Whatever you like," Mehrunes dismissed. The Valkynaz filed out of the room, still proudly marching in their heavy armor and carrying bloodied weapons. For his part, Mehrunes looked untouched, and he sat upright and unfazed in his seat of power, waiting for Portia to speak.

"So Tamriel and the Septims prevailed," she voiced, striding from the shadows and into the light, stopping only once she stood directly before him. "Are you angry?"

"Yes," Mehrunes answered, leaning back against his throne with a stony face. "But for a few minutes, I stood in Tamriel in my true form—unrestricted by other powers and laws. I can barely remember the last time that I could indulge in such a pleasure, and I felt the Nine quack in the fear that I would undo their world." Here a wicked smile slid up his face, highlighted by the baring of his fanged teeth. "My men are sated, my power known far and wide...there was a recent time when all the days blended together, but you have no idea what that's like since you're a mere mortal. I have eternity to wait for my next opportunity, Portia."

"I thought that you would be furious," Portia mused.

"I was," Mehrunes discounted. "I hate losing."

"I never would have guessed." He laughed, and Portia was struck by how truly elated he was in thinking about the destruction that he had set in motion. "But last night..."

"Last night I was angry with the failure of my subordinates," the prince dismissed. "They failed me and have been punished accordingly. The fetchers almost destroyed my chance to go to Tamriel as I truly am, but I got what I wanted in the end. I always do. I'm sure that those idiots in the Mythic Dawn are denouncing me right now. They are if they're smart."

"That was not your only reason for being angry," Portia inserted, and Mehrunes' mood quickly sobered. His eyes honed onto her intent expression, and she steeled herself to attempt what she must, for backing out now might mean never being free again.

_"The woman that I saw standing on the bridge during a storm was freer than she'd ever been,"_ Mehrunes' thoughts undercut her, but she brushed them aside, difficult as it was.

"Mehrunes," she continued. "I know that you want the sphere back. I know that you're keeping me here because you're trying to figure out a way to retake it."

"You think that is the only reason, Sherkyn?" he probingly asked, making her uncomfortable.

"Regardless, you want it back, and I do not take kindly to being considered a possession. If I return the sphere, will you send me home?" Mehrunes' opinion immediately tore in two, one side rejoicing at the thought of plundering the chaos from Portia, and the other side recalling his tireless and methodical tenacity in chasing her down. Portia could catch the gist of his thoughts, but not the details, and so she stood silently awaiting his decision. He wanted the power more than anything.

_ "And you'll die anyway since you're mortal. Or you will die if..."_

"If what?" Portia quickly asked.

_"Make the decision now, before..."_

"I will agree to this," he slowly stated, completely ignoring her question. "But don't you ever dare think that you've escaped me, Portia Augustine. I will never let that scar heal." He stood and forcefully seized her, pulling her against his chest as a burning sensation began to spread throughout her body. "This will not work unless you release the chaos," he warned. Portia felt her natural resistance against his attempts growing, although she fought it with every ounce of concentration that she could muster. "This is your last chance," Mehrunes baited her. "Before I change my mind."

_Just let everything go. _

Portia felt her resistance crumbling, painful as the result was. The world was becoming an empty void, bereft of the energy of creation and life that had come to suffuse her; bereft of Mehrunes' presence, which left her conspicuously alone. Already, she was losing her sense of him, but right when she almost returned to the defensive, she screamed and began urging the chaos out of her body. Blood was falling, and she wanted to die, but she did not. She felt the world being blasted into a million pieces, and she stood amidst the rubble, unable to join it.

"I haven't escaped, Mehrunes," she whispered into the nothingness. "But I never lost either."

"We'll call it even then," his mocking voice responded, the words barely reaching her as she felt her back hit cold stone. Then he was gone, and she couldn't even open her eyes for the pain piercing every inch of her body. There were voices in these dead surroundings, frantic voices that were calling for help, but she merely willed herself to forget everything for a few moments lest her recent experience overwhelm her.

"We've got another survivor over here!"

"Bring a stretcher."

"By the Nine, Portia? Quick. Get me a potion. She's very weak."

"Where should we take her, sir?"

"To my house. Lucretia will know what to do." Portia was carried away, but she didn't care about the destination. She couldn't bring herself to care about anything at the moment, reaching as she was for a spirit and energy that was no longer present. It was gone. Gods help her, but the chaos and Oblivion were really gone.

* * *

I know that some people are probably distressed by this turn of events, but you'll just have to wait and see what happens...


	47. Chapter 47: Oblivion's Lady

Chapter 46: Oblivion's Lady

"Can I see it?" Pyrus asked, eyes wide in wonder as Portia dangled a golden medal over his palms. She smiled at the child who had been so amiable and energetic since her return, telling her about how he'd stayed in the house to defend everyone when the dremora came, and how everyone had been worried about her. He was a dear boy, and now that Lucretia's sons were home, the three were as thick as thieves.

"Be careful with it," Portia joked.

"I promise," Pyrus beamed, handling the medal with care. "High Chancellor Ocato really gave this to you in person?" Portia nodded, memories of the ceremony playing through her mind, and pleased that Gilthan had been awarded a posthumous award, which she'd lain on his gravestone. Few knew of that had transpired earlier in the city with Mehrunes Dagon and the Mythic Dawn, so the medal was a bit of a mystery to locals, but let them wonder. The truth could remain hidden for all Portia cared at this point, and now that the threat had passed, everyone was anxious to move on with life. As a Blade, that had always meant doing the work without the public praise.

"Yes, I met the chancellor," Portia told Pyrus.

"What's he like?"

"He'll make a strong leader," Portia voiced with some reserve. "He cares about the empire, and he's already working hard to rebuild the city." Pyrus simply nodded, completely taking for granted all that had transpired in order to achieve what in his mind must have been a happy ending. For a child, it was easy to overlook the long-term suffering that accompanied winning, but Portia couldn't begrudge him that. Not everyone needed to carry scars, and the city deserved to celebrate its victory, even if she knew that it was partly an illusion.

"I have to go to lessons now," Pyrus huffed. "But can I look at it again later?"

"Of course." And Portia watched Pyrus run off, leaving her alone in the sitting room with nothing to do for the afternoon. What did a Blade do when the empire was safe? She knew that there would always be more threats and missions, but she prayed that they didn't arrive too soon as she lived at this new, slower pace, her main task being to help an injured Lucretia around the house. Gods bless that woman, for Lucretia did an admirable job in conducting the house despite the poison had ravaged her system. Seeing her quick recovery had been one of the highlights in coming home, but not everything was as Portia had hoped.

She carelessly tossed her medal onto a nearby table and slouched in her seat, her position giving her a clear view out the window and of the city streets beyond. For all intents and purposes, life was working in her favor, for it was a sunny winter morning; she'd been given an unspoken and indefinite invitation to stay at Arelius's home, and she'd been promoted. Arelius, that lovable bastard, was still working on molding her, and his familiar efforts were almost a welcomed comfort in helping her return to a fairly normal life, but Portia doubted whether she'd ever feel normal again.

"I was wondering where you were."

_Speak of a daedra_, she inwardly smiled.

"Well, you've found me," she stated, studying Arelius as he strode into the room and sat down beside her. The man was no worse for wear considering the heavy combat that he'd seen during Mehrunes' final assault, but Portia knew that he was hardly at ease despite his calm demeanor. For all his loyalty to the empire, the man had more than proven himself equally loyal to his flock of Blades, and when one was unaccounted for, it undoubtedly weighed on his mind. "Any luck in finding Tamil?" Portia asked, also concerned.

"No," Arelius replied, cool and reserved as usual. "But she's alive. At least I know that I'm not looking for a body anymore."

"What do you mean?" Portia immediately asked. "If she was alive, wouldn't she come back?"

"I don't have an explanation," Arelius confessed, leaning forward to rest his elbows across his knees. "But when I went into my study this morning, her knives were gone, and there was an unsigned message." He passed a small piece of parchment to Portia, and she carefully read its contents aloud, her voice trailing in confusion.

"'Don't miss me too much while I'm away. If you need me, leave a message with the hawk. Until then, an old friend came to call.'...so she is alive, but an old friend? Do you have any idea what she's talking about?" Arelius gently shook his head. "That's Tamil for you, I guess." Portia handed the note back, unsure as to what the last sentence meant, but certain that Arelius knew more than he was sharing, or so she assumed from experience. The man was now wearing a faint smile as the paper was returned to him, and he shook his head in amusement, one hand running over his short, brown hair and smoothing a few stubborn strands.

"Every time I have a truly promising Blade, they disappear on me," he complained, making Portia smile. "Tamil was always a bit of a mystery, and she likes it that way. I'm tempted to look for her incase she's in trouble, but she would find that insulting, and she's extremely unpleasant when she's offended. No, for once I'm going to have to sit on my hands. She's more than earned my respect, and I must honor her wishes. Besides, I may be sorry to lose her, but I can't complain. We've all been very fortunate in this mess." Thinking of her own trials, Portia had to agree, for many had come close to death only to walk away from it, including herself, but still...

"We've paid for our victory, if you can even call it that," she sighed. "What cruel games the daedric princes play with mortals." Her thoughts drifted toward Mehrunes, and her eyes grew distant, Arelius sitting quietly at her side, looking equally pensive.

"I haven't asked you about what happened in Oblivion," he finally spoke. "I haven't asked about what happened with Mehrunes either, and I won't, but whatever it was, Portia, you've changed. I don't know if you appreciate how far you've come, but when I found you several months ago, you were sleeping in a sack by the water like a beggar. Now you're an officer, and I won't apologize for getting you involved with Mehrunes. I deemed it the best course of action at the time, and the results are something that I'm quite proud of."

"Remorselessly devoted to your cause until the end," Portia joked. "Trust me, Arelius; I wouldn't undo what's happened, and I'm glad to not be sleeping by the river anymore."

"But you've been distant lately," Arelius added, eyes searching for hers. "In time, I hope that you can put all of this behind you—turn this into another trial for the history books and not a permanent scar."

"Scars are history," Portia argued, thinking about how empty the world still felt. The stones here were mere stone without warmth or power, and her spirit felt isolated and anchored to her physical form, no longer free to roam the paths of magic and chaos that had once suffused her being. "I told you about the chaos sphere and how it affected me," she stated. "It's gone now, but I can still almost sense it sometimes. Maybe this recovery would be easier if I was completely severed from it, but once in a while, I hear a whisper or sense unseen movement, as if it isn't really gone. I can't explain it properly, Arelius, but it's not my experiences that are now haunting me, but the remnants of a power that I never fully understood. In some ways, Mehrunes was right."

"About what?"

"I'm not really free," Portia breathed, and the conversation lapsed into silence. She regarded Arelius as he sat there looking handsome in a green tunic and brown breeches, and admired his listening skills with appreciation, but she knew that he couldn't fully understand what she'd just shared, and she couldn't expect that of anyone. Perhaps Gilthan would have understood, but he was gone, and that only left Mehrunes Dagon.

_Mehrunes_...Portia closed her eyes, almost expecting to feel his heartbeat, but it was nowhere to be found. Adjusting to this silence was the greatest difficulty for her, for it gnawed at her mind, but was also promising in that it showed that physically at least, her body had recovered from being torn apart. But was the chaos really gone? Sometimes she dreamt of Oblivion and Mehrunes, and sometimes she turned in a crowd, expecting to see him. At one point, she had actually called out to him, trying to make contact by screaming into her own mind, and for a second, she had sensed his surprise, but then it was gone, whisked away to leave her isolated once more.

"It's strange for everything to be over, isn't it?" she asked. "You've been completely missions likes this your entire life, but the sensation is new to me."

"It's never really over," Arelius mused, sitting back and staring at her with soft eyes that offered comfort. "Sometimes my life feels like one unending job, but even after all these years, the end of a mission this large has an impact. I'm glad it's over." Portia snorted in a manner that reminded her of Mehrunes, and Arelius smiled. "I know that you think I live only for work, but I treasure these peaceful moments. I'd gladly retire, Portia, but I don't think that I could keep my hands out of this line of work even if I tried."

"Like I was thinking," Portia grinned. "You live for work. Did you hear about Horace?"

"He was released for lack of evidence," Arelius dismissively stated. "Bastard was hard to try with Mehrunes gone, Tamil's enemy dead, and my Blades missing. Other members of the Dawn might have implicated him, but Mehrunes had some of them killed. Others mysteriously died right before the trials, and the rest apparently know nothing about Horace."

"And the justice hound in you isn't chafing at the bit?" Portia asked, stunned by his indifference.

"No," Arelius slowly smiled. "Horace might not be in chains, but polite society is shunning him, and he's sold his house—claims he wants to move to another city to escape bad memories, but I bet that he sold the place to pay off massive debts, especially if he had some people disposed of. He's poor as a pauper, and cowardly sneaks like him tend to meet violent ends anyway. Here's to hoping that selling the house didn't pay off all of his debts."

"And in the meantime we get back to work," Portia assumed.

"Only when you're ready," Arelius assured.

"You mean only when _you_ think I'm ready," she testily corrected. "Goblin's gall, but some people don't change." Portia tried to smile but failed as she wondered about what had become of her daedric armor. Arelius must have held his tongue when she'd popped out of the sky wearing nothing but an overly large tunic of the finest caliber. To his credit, he'd been very proper and respectful in not pressing her for answers, but then again, he was here now, offering her an ear, and silently encouraging her. _No_, she thought with a genuine smile now growing, _some people survive everything intact_.

"Dinner is ready," a servant called from the doorway, and Arelius rose.

"You'd best bring the medal, Portia. The boys will want to look at it again." Portia began to follow him out of the sitting room, but was distracted by a gentle stirring of the air that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Warmth unexpectedly flooded her veins, but then it was gone, disappointing her as she again questioned the extent of her recovery. The lurking doubts that plagued her would only grow over the next few years as such incidents increased in frequency, her dreams eventually becoming so vivid that she seemed to actually entered Oblivion on a nightly basis. Sometimes she stood in the throne room and listened to Mehrunes delegate, and sometimes she actually spoke to him, but she always awoke in the morning questioning the validity of these exchanges. The prince mocked her as usual, but was it real or only her imagination? When she once again began to feel his presence during the day, she began to think the former.

Months turned into years, and her scar might bleed, but Mehrunes and Portia had little direct interaction. She sometimes spoke aloud, as if he were present, but she rarely received an answer to confirm his presence or not, and being an officer among the Blades kept her from devoting too much time to chasing the tatters of chaos that seemed to persist within her. The new position actually turned out quite well for her—although it took adjustment since she had subordinates now—and the work was not as threatening as anything she'd already survived, so she learned not to fear directing other Blades to handle minor issues. Plus Arelius was always there, guiding her even if she sometimes wanted to slap the man. It was impossible to ignore him since she never really moved out of her room in his manor, even if she did earn enough to afford her own house. His family simply felt like her family now, and everyone seemed happy and to have brushed the subject of Mehrunes aside as new challenges appeared, but never her. Never.

It was a spring afternoon, five years after the events that had so affected her, that the High Chancellor dedicated a statue near the White Gold Tower to the defeat of Mehrunes Dagon, and Portia had almost smiled at the sight of it, thinking about how much the gesture would annoy the prince of destruction. Or maybe he would be amused, but either way, she mentally searched for that barest trace of him, conveying the information across the planes, and willing him to hear her.

"Please answer," she muttered aloud, suddenly desperate to feel something more concrete than a brief brushing of spirits. Goblin's gall, but years separated her from him, and she still couldn't just let Oblivion go, for which she sometimes wanted to slap herself. It wasn't that she was unhappy in life, but she had to admit that she'd never gotten over the feeling of being trapped alone within her body, even after years, and now this statue stood as proof that Tamriel was delegating what had happened to the past. The conflict was gone, dead, and commemorated, but it would never be over for her, and Portia was certain of that as she felt a trickle of blood slide down her hip. In that moment, when she so desperately yearned for the undercurrent of energy that was Oblivion, she felt a spark of fiery orange and heard a chuckle that came from deep within her consciousness.

"Mehrunes...?"

"Sherkyn. Tell them that they're idiots." Then he vanished, but from that moment onward, with effort, Portia could pop into his mind and vice versa, and they did so until exchanges become commonplace. The contact was oddly welcomed on Portia's part, and she liked to think that the feeling was mutual, for even when she and Mehrunes had been at each other's throats, she admitted that their wills were locked together in an eternal roll. The world could move on and forget Mehrunes and the struggle to stop him, but she could not forget, and didn't want to. There was a strong draw between them, and that was how she thought that it would remain, but the years were not kind to Portia Augustine...

...

...

"You've been restless, Portia," Arelius commented, finding her standing in her room with a bag at her feet. "I see that you've made your decision." Portia lifted her head and stared at Arelius. His posture was still impeccable, but his hair was quickly graying, although somehow it only added to his dignified handsomeness, and truly, he was still a very handsome man. Portia would still not want to meet him on the battlefield either—not when he continued to train and whoop new recruits into shape.

"I'm taking a break," she told him. "I can't stay here, and you know why."

"It's only been ten years," Arelius reasoned. "How can you be so sure that you're right?" Portia turned to look in the mirror, finding her physical form unchanged. True, that was not unusual in and of itself since she was still fairly young (mid-thirties), but she noticed what no one else did. If she stared into her eyes, she saw flashes of orange, and when she became angry or emotional, she felt her blood stir with more than adrenaline. It had been a slow development at first, but the more she'd interacted with Oblivion, the more she'd noticed minor changes and sought chaos, which she now realized had been reckless on her part. What had seemed a small remnant of Oblivion had grown into something much more powerful, as if the chaos inside of her had not been wholly removed, but only dormant.

_"Dormant, Sherkyn? Or something small that I missed, and you've fed?"_

_Did I ask for your opinion?_

"I'm certain, sir," she told Arelius. "I can feel it inside of me, and eventually other people will notice. How can I continue to live and work like this when I'm not...," she swallowed, "not aging?" She hated to say something that sounded so ridiculous, but she knew that her body should be showing changes as she grew older. Instead, she looked like she was no older than twenty-five, youthful and beautiful, which Lucretia sometimes commented on. Mehrunes might also have implied something, the son of a bitch.

"So you'll leave for how long?" Arelius asked.

"I don't know, and I don't really need to tell you, do I?" she ruefully smiled. "Somehow you always know anyway." She lifted her bag and strode downstairs with Arelius at her side, the house mostly unchanged since their initial reunion but for seasonal decor as they passed the familiar halls and rooms. "I'll continue working abroad, under your orders, and I'll return to check on assignments and visit. It's not really a demotion. I'm just doing more fieldwork now."

"You make a fine officer," Arelius sternly commented, making Portia smile. "The position will always be open for you when you return." They were at the door, and Portia stepped outside into the early night air, intent on getting an immediate start on her journey north. She had messages to deliver, and Arelius would not take kindly to her wasting time.

"Will you be terribly disappointed if I don't succeed you?" she asked, perfectly serious as she stared at the man now leaning against the doorframe. He wore one of his secretive smiles that still had the power to annoy or make her suspicious, but this time she merely waited for his response, patiently gauging his carefully neutral face.

"There isn't much in life that I regret, Portia," he stated, the city cradled in silence and darkness around them, but the lantern hanging above the manor's door encasing the two friends in light. "You only disappointed me once, because you ran, but I don't foresee you ever doing that again. I'll admit that I'm pleased you still care so much about my opinion. Don't stay away too long, Blade. You'll be missed."

"You're haven't tried to dissuade me from leaving very much," Portia warily observed. "Either you're very confident that you'll reel me back in, or you've found another protege. Oh well. I'll see you later, sir. Tell Pyrus that he can keep my medal, and don't push him too hard in his training. You were once a green recruit too."

"I make no promises," Arelius said with a smile. "You turned out alright despite my demands, didn't you?" Portia rolled her eyes, and he laughed. "So long, Blade. It's always an honor to work with you." He embraced her like a daughter, and then watched her walk away, and somewhere in the nearby shadows, a sleek, feminine figure leaned against the wall to play witness. "That one might stop coming back one day," Arelius quietly commented. "She would make a fine replacement, but she's right: it might not be her choice. I'm merely glad to have served with her for so long, and to have set her on this path."

"Life has a way of working itself out, even if it's a bitch sometimes," came a familiar dark elf's voice from the shadows. Arelius glanced toward the figure and smiled despite the faint red of glowing eyes that greeted his gaze.

"You got my message then?" he asked. "I trust that you can handle it, and when you get back, stop by for the evening or I'll hit you this time. I'm an old man now, Tamil, and it makes me happy to hear about the exploits of my former pupils."

"Yes, sir," the woman answered in amusement before disappearing, and Arelius went back inside to the waiting arms of his wife. He might not like how certain things had turned out, but if it widened his range of contacts in the darker half of the city, he'd deal with it. A man with fewer regrets than might be expected, but more hardships than his share, he settled into his bed and closed his eyes for a decent night's sleep, quite content to let those whom he'd worked so tirelessly to shape continue his work into the dead of night. Yes, he would sleep well and let others worry about what they couldn't control. He was proud and satisfied with his work, and a man could ask for nothing more in life.

**************

Portia stood on a boulder perched carefully atop a sloping hill, and stared at the Imperial City as the moonlight shone off of its white walls. It was beautiful, and it was home, which caused a dull ache in her heart as she considered the friends that she was leaving behind. It wasn't like she was leaving permanently, for she was only doing fieldwork and would periodically return to her rooms at Arelius's manor, but she felt like she was turning a page in the book of her life, and so she stared with nostalgia as she thought of grabbing beers with Arelius or helping Lucretia in kitchen, training Pyrus to hold his sword more firmly, and sitting on her balcony to watch the stars. There were memories there that could not be replaced, and she knew that she would return here in a matter of weeks, perhaps to give up fieldwork like this all together.

_And if that's not always an option? _

Portia was reminded of why she had taken this assignment in the first place, and it had everything to do with the chaos that had never been completely separated from her body. She had been changed from wearing the sphere, and she wasn't sure if she wanted the results to manifest themselves while she was around other people. Friends would be a comfort if difficulties set in, but she wouldn't lie to herself. She wasn't in pain or in need of aid, but she did doubt whether any of them would truly understand. When she'd told Arelius that she thought she'd been somewhat physically changed in the way of aging, he'd listened and reasoned through the matter, although she was certain that he trusted her judgement.

"He just wanted to keep me as his officer," Portia softly smiled to herself, missing the man already. "But he'll also miss me," she reflected, having long accepted that Arelius was not as pragmatic and coldly meddlesome as she'd once believed. He'd even adopted Pyrus, making the boy a third upcoming Blade along with his two biological sons—a development which had been a great source of amusement to Portia, but she was also genuinely pleased with the decision. If she would change as much as she anticipated, going back to Arelius and his family would not always be an option, and letting her leave the Blades would be easier for Arelius if he had a project to keep him busy. In the end, she suspected that the man cared far more about people than the empire, and what a revelation that had been.

_What if they grow old and I don't...?_ She fought back the sadness of such a thought since there was no such surety, although Tamil had once commented that she had the timeless quality of one of the undead, and this despite the fact that Portia was most certainly alive. Thinking on this, she remained staring at the city, knowing what had happened to Tamil and why, for the woman had told her a very long story years ago, when the dunmer had finally returned to handle nighttime jobs. She wondered if Tamil also thought about her future with uncertainty, but if the woman did, she kept her reservations to herself, preferring to maintain her sarcastic, acerbic manner and disappear for long periods of time. But that was Tamil.

"I won't make the future any better by dreading it," Portia told herself, jumping from the boulder and continuing on her course.

_"You'll be forced to return eventually,"_ Mehrunes smugly asserted. "_You will always be mine._"

"Why?" Portia asked, pulling her cloak closer about her as the winter wind swept down the hill and across her face. Instincts and habit made her draw from the energy within her to warm her cold limbs, but she did so sparingly. "Why is the chaos still inside of me?"

_"Removing all of it would have killed you,"_ Mehrunes explained. _"So I left a small amount, but I didn't think that you'd actually be able to harness it. I should have known better. You are the lady of Oblivion, Sherkyn. It only rains in my realm when you're sad, and that never changed, even after you left. You belong here and will return when you tire of counting the mortal years go by. You have no choice. Life for one of us amongst mortals is not possible."_

"You know more about what's happening than I do," Portia commented, thinking of Arelius's graying hair. She knew that he would grow old and die before her if they both met natural ends, but what if she had to watch Pyrus grow old? She frowned as a shiver ran through her body. _I should have never accepted Arelius's blackmail. _

_"You don't meant that."_

"No, but I can say it anyway." Mehrunes chuckled, and Portia felt an unseen hand brush through her hair.

"_You'll come back_," he darkly promised her.

"But not today," Portia contemplatively asserted. "Not today.

"_One day_."

"Perhaps," but she knew that the prince was right, for the world would change without her, but right now, it wasn't so bad. She was just a Blade climbing a mountain to deliver a message and do some spying. Then she'd be back in the Imperial City, helping train young Blades, and she'd feel like an average citizen going about her life. That was enough for her, and the rest she could worry about when it happened. Until then, she merely had to tolerate Mehrunes on a daily basis, although the thought of seeing him again was hardly troubling, for she knew that it was inevitable anyway. One way or another, she would stand before the daedric prince again.

"All I wanted when I agreed to steal from you was to get an old boss off my back," she smiled, amazed by how events had unfolded. She laughed with Mehrunes as they both shared the memory of him nearly going to a fit when they met at the palace ball, for now she could appreciate just how frustrated and testy he'd been in letting her walk away. With the laughter softening, Portia almost reached for the prince, but whether to slap him or run a hand across his face, she wasn't sure. She settled for remaining distant, her feet climbing ever higher.

"Not today," she whispered into the night wind, the first evidence of dawn creeping over the far hilltops. "Not today, but one day."

*************

_The Daedric Princes and Their Domains_,

Exert, page 80

No one is entirely certain where the popular Imperial song comes from, but the origin of 'Oblivion's Lady' has been traced to central Cyrodiil, where people hold that if one prays at the shrine of Mehrunes Dagon, a woman sometimes appears. This phenomena has been reported elsewhere as well, and scholars have studied the few sources available with interest. I myself discounted the rumors until I recently traveled to the Imperial City, where I was told that a mysterious woman in royal garb appears every Queen Mother's Night to light candles at the grave of a mysterious Altmer mage named Gilthan Lorenlee. The superstition has grown to such enormous proportions that hundreds of people light candles at the grave in hopes of winning the lady's favor, but no one really knows who she is, although I've met some who I suspect know more than they share.

But I digress. As I was saying, I saw the lady myself, and I asked her who she is, telling her that I was writing a book on the daedra. She said that she is nothing but a Blade, and that she was meeting some friends for drinks. I was stunned, but before I could question her further, she was gone, and I would have believed her an impostor except that her eyes had glowed with a strange, orange light. Is this woman a servant of Lord Dagon or something else entirely? Our only hints come from the popular poem that is sung throughout the empire:

Lady of Ember, a flame on the wind,

Dance with the darkness, the chaos within.

Blood of the ancients, tears of a mortal

Touch of a god, defender of portals,

One of us truly, temper the fires

that roll and bellow and consume with desire.

From the city of white to black palace of night,

you bested your enemy but withheld your spite.

We'll see you again, of this we are sure,

On the wings of the 'morrow or Oblivion's shore.

* * *

I can't believe that it's over! I always feel this hole when I finish a story, especially when I really love writing about the characters, but alas, all good things must come to an end. Thank you to everyone who has been reading, and I'd dearly appreciate it if you left ending comments/reviews. As a writer, feedback is most treasured, and I'd love to hear from everyone who's been reading. What did you like or dislike? Favorite characters? Are there any questions that the story left you with, or do you have suggestions concerning content or grammar? That sort of thing. Thanks, and I hope that you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.


	48. Chapter 48: Perfect Fanart

Everyone must check out the fanart that Anouche did for this story. Her picture of Dagon and Portia together is absolutely amazing, and her portrayal of the characters is absolutely perfect. Seriously. It's a must see for anyone who likes this story, and as a shameless promotion of her work, she also did a picture of Lex and Mandila from 'Lex and the Thief'.

Link: .com/art/Slipping-into-shadow-171172000?q=&qo=

For some reason, the site isn't letting me post the whole link, so you'll have to see it on my profile page.


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